The Haunting of Hermione Granger
by harlequindreaming
Summary: Hermione Granger is in St. Mungo's, incurably insane. Her husband, Draco Malfoy, is losing all hope for her recovery. But when her diary gets sent to Draco, he and Harry Potter may have found hope for a cure. OoC Deathly Hallows. [INDEFINITELY ON HIATUS]
1. Prologue

_A/N._

_I've actually got another fic ongoing right now (Not Like This) but… well, the idea for this was derived from that fic, so I'm writing it right now while I still have time. I'll update Not Like This as well, of course, but I'll be writing this too. It's a little dark, and a little depressing, and definitely not a typical Dramione story. But I hope it's all right. I'll try to make my chapters longer, too (the usual complaint about my stories). My apologies for the inevitable infrequent updating in the future. As an architecture student, I'll be having very little time to myself when the first semester really rolls in._

_This story is set post-war, OoC the seventh book. I'll be altering a few deaths and events in the final battle. Somewhat AU._

_Disclaimer: the last time I checked (10 seconds ago), Harry Potter still belonged to JK Rowling. Since my 18__th__ birthday's coming up, maybe if I ask nicely enough, she'll give it to me._

**xxxxx**

The sun was barely starting to rise when a lone figure stepped out of the fireplace. Save for the crackle of the flames and the sounds of soot being dusted from cloth, St. Mungo's lobby was quiet. The mediwitch sitting behind the welcome desk barely looked up as the visitor strode toward the stairs. By now, they were all used to him.

His footsteps rang out in the empty stairwell, echoing slightly off the walls. He didn't know why he took the stairs every time, when the elevators were always empty at this hour. Or perhaps he did know, but refused to admit it to himself. It was probably the latter. He took each step deliberately, setting each foot down as if scared the cement would give and he would fall. (Scared, or perhaps hopeful.) His hand clutched at the banister like his life depended on it. Reluctance. He could feel it dragging him down, weighing him like an anchor. Reluctant to see her again.

Would she remember him this time? Would today be one of her better days? He hoped fervently that she would be lucid, that she would not lash out at him, clawing at herself in search of her wand. It hurt to see her, it always did. It hurt to be able to remember when she would always forget. It hurt to see her like this when no one knew what had caused it. He knew she couldn't help it. But it hurt.

The floors crawled by, one, two, three. As he reached the final landing before the fourth floor, he stopped and steadied himself. Suddenly, each step seemed as big as a mountain. His feet seemed made of tons of lead. He looked around, desperate to distract himself. The hospital had been decorated for the holidays. Red and green tinsel were woven around the banisters, with fairies in baubles hanging from them at regular intervals. Magical snowflakes fell from the ceiling, fading before they reached the floor. The portraits around the walls had obviously been celebrating holiday cheer; one monk was snoring in his cauldron, the hand dangling over the rim clutching at a mug of what must have been ale. A Christmas tree stood at every mid-floor landing, each decorated differently. The one he stood in front of now had real candles, red tinsel, red-and-gold ribbons tied in bows, and small red stars. The branches had small amounts of snow dusting them. Another glowing fairy in a bauble rested at the top. Touching a star gently with the tip of his finger, he found they released small amount of gold dust when moved. Wreathes hung from doors, the big bows hanging from them a different color for each. The holiday happiness felt wrong, all the way up here. It contrasted with the hopelessness.

Finally, he reached the fourth floor. Part of him wanted to continue, to go to the top floor and sit in the tea room and pretend he was visiting someone else, someone with a much more hopeful case. But he couldn't. And so his feet dragged on the floor and his heart sank lower and lower as he got closer and closer to that dreaded ward. And when he finally stood outside it, his heart was thudding in his chest so loud he was sure it would wake up the entire hospital. He forced his hand to reach for the doorknob. It seemed to turn so slowly. When it finally clicked open he was sure his heart had stopped. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door, glancing at the plate on it as he did so.

With an almost ominous snap, the door of the Janus Thickey ward closed behind him.

**xxxxx**

There was a new Healer in charge of the ward today. She'd introduced herself as Healer Hornby. Normally, he'd have snickered and made jokes about her name behind her back, but that would have been the old him. Being who he was now, he simply forced a smile and wished her Happy Holidays. He hoped she wouldn't be as nosy as the previous Healer in charge. Thankfully, she didn't seem to be.

He carefully made his way to the door at the end of the ward, passing by beds, some with curtains drawn and some not. This part had always made him shudder –seeing all the incurables. He could hear moaning and muttering, creaking and scratching. Some rocked back and forth; others simply stared at the ceiling. It felt like it had taken forever, but finally he reached the door. His fingers briefly touched the nameplate on it. It was cold to his touch; cold, unforgiving brass. His fingers traced the letters, feeling the grooves that spelled out this fate. Finally, knowing he could not delay this forever, he stepped inside.

She was sitting up. That was not a good thing. His right hand immediately went to the wand in his pocket. Slowly, carefully, he took a few tentative steps forward. She did not look at him. Instead, she drew her knees up, the blanket wrapped protectively around her. She was looking at the curtains covering the window. He could hear her ragged breathing. Maybe it was a good day. He paused, a few feet away from her bed. Called her name. She did not look up.

Cautiously, he took a few more steps toward her. Her hands tightened around her knees –a protective gesture. She knew he was here. His eyes on her the whole while, he gently put his free hand down on the bed. Her head jerked around, suddenly, angrily. Her eyes flashed with fury and he hastily retreated, but too late. She was out of bed, thrashing, reaching for him. He backed up toward the door. She had her hand at his throat. He offered no resistance. She was screaming.

_What have you done to me? Where am I? _What had he done to her? More like what hadn't he done. He hadn't protected her, hadn't saved her from this. Hadn't known what she had done to cause this. She was throttling him, he was banging on the door, trying to attract the attention of the Healer. Above the din of her screams he could hear footsteps outside, a door closing. Someone getting help.

_Answer me, you filthy little pureblood. Where am I? Where's my wand? Why am I here? _Why was she here? What had happened to her that would land her in this ward, this cold, depressing place of the forgotten? Why was she, of all people, here, raving at him, delirious and forgetting, unable to remember how she had gotten over her hatred for him, how she had fallen in love with him? Why was she here? Why her?

Fists were hammering at the door from the outside. He grabbed her wrists, forcing her away. She had wounded him. He could feel the blood trickling down his cheek. Healers ran into the room, wands at ready, bottles of potion in hand. One of them shot a binding curse at her, and ropes quickly encircled her body. She fell to the floor, cursing him. The other Healers forced open her mouth and poured a foul-smelling concoction down her throat. Immediately she quieted. The Healers gathered her up, placed her back on the bed, started straightening the room. One of them turned to him. _Perhaps it's best if you leave, Sir. Today doesn't seem to be a good day. _He nodded and stepped out of the room. As the door closed behind him he heard her voice.

It was the voice he remembered, not the hoarse, frightful voice that had been tearing out of her throat just a few seconds ago. The gentle voice, the sweet voice, the reasonable voice. Her voice, her real one. But instead of warmth or friendly annoyance, it only held immeasurable sadness and uncountable tears, and it broke his heart again, it did. It only spoke four words, but it broke his heart.

_Why can't I remember?_

Why can't you? thought Draco Malfoy as he sank down to the floor, sobbing, the brass plate above him gleaming, the words Hermione Granger Malfoy glinting in the harsh fluorescent light.

**xxxxx**

_A/N._

_For those of you who can't remember, the Janus Thickey ward, located on the fourth floor of St. Mungo's, is the ward for permanent residents –those with ailments that cannot be cured and/or figured out. I had to double-check this in book five. Neville's parents reside here, as does Lockhart._

_Reviews will be much appreciated._


	2. The Pain of Remembering

Draco returned a few days later, bearing a few presents from friends who were still alive and contactable. Christmas was still less than a week away, but he didn't know when Hermione would be lucid again, and St. Mungo's had owled him today saying she had asked after him. He had been in the middle of a case meeting but had begged off and his superior, knowing full well what Draco had been going through the past few months, had agreed on the condition that Draco spend the whole day in the office tomorrow. Draco had raced down to the Ministry lobby, taking the first available fireplace. And now he was back in that cold fourth floor, carrying a measly few presents.

With his arms occupied, he used his foot to tap the door. Healer Hornby let him in.

"Oh, you've brought presents! That should cheer her up nicely," she exclaimed, stepping back so he could enter the ward. "She seems better today. At the very least, she knows she's married to you."

"Thank you for informing me," Draco replied, formal as always. The healer's shoes clacked across the ward as she went to open Hermione's door for him. Draco followed her, feeling the resentful glares of some residents as he passed by. He knew it was the Christmas presents. He'd had to endure this before, being hated for remembering. Many residents here were forgotten, or visited only once a year and even then it was half-hearted. Some didn't even have anyone on the outside to visit them, like Lockhart, though he barely remembered anything, that annoying git, so it didn't matter. (Lockhart was the only resident for whom Draco spared no pity.) He reached her door and, taking a deep breath, entered.

"Presents!" He was immediately greeted by Hermione's happy voice, and he visibly relaxed. He set the presents down on a side table and was suddenly enveloped by a warm pair of arms and a laugh. Relief filled him as he hugged her back, tightly. She was sane today.

"Where were you? I was waiting!" Eagerly she sorted through the small pile, looking at names. "Harry, Ginny, Molly, Ron… oh wow, even Fred and George! And Lupin and Tonks!" She laughed more, bringing them to her bed. Draco's heart sank. So she wasn't that lucid. She didn't remember. His sadness must have shown because Hermione, looking up at him, furrowed her brow. "Draco? Is something wrong?"

He mentally kicked himself. "No, nothing. I just… missed you." He forced a smile.

She stood up, went to him, threw her arms around his neck. "I missed you too."

His heart melted, and he slowly wrapped his arms around her waist. He tried to push the sadness out of his mind. It wouldn't do to show despair today. Not when she was sane and happy. He tightened his hold on her, his eyes drawn to the still-unwrapped presents on her bed. He'd faked some of them, just in case this happened, just in case she didn't remember the deaths.

"Draco? You're hurting me." Surprised, he loosened his hold on her.

"I'm sorry, Hermione… I didn't realize." He looked down into those brown eyes, the wrinkles already forming around them, despite her still young age. Tentatively, he stroked her soft cheek. In response, she lifted her head to his and kissed him. He kissed her back, his rough, dry lips pressing against her soft, sweet ones. She tasted like strawberries. He felt her smile against him. Pulling back, he led her back to bed. "Your presents?"

She giggled at sat. "I'll start with… Harry's." Deftly she picked through the wrapper, not tearing anything. Draco had always laughed at her for that. He'd always argued with her that tearing through the wrapper was one of the joys of Christmas, but she said it felt like wasting paper. He'd made the mistake of answering back once, telling her that her four-foot-long History of Magic essays had been a waste of paper. She'd launched into a heated attack on the importance of academics and saving trees and he'd never teased her about it, ever again. Today, however, Draco only had a grim smile for both Hermione neatly unwrapping her gift and the memory. Too much had changed since then.

"A new book! Emotion-Related Potions: Their Histories, Uses and Antidotes. Oh, I've got to owl Harry to thank him for this!" Happily she went through the rest of the presents. A sweater and some homemade fudge from Mrs. Weasely. A couple of new products from Fred and George. A wizard charm bracelet from Ginny –the Color Change Charm version. (*) The beads on the charm flashed in different colors every few seconds, like Muggle Christmas lights. Lupin had sent some spell books, Tonks a book on Animagi. Finally, Hermione got to Ron's gift.

"Oh wow," she breathed, as she held up a simple gold heart on a chain. Touching the heart, she found it had hinges. "It's a locket." She smiled as she unfastened the chain. "This is beautiful. I should thank Ron next time I see him." But midway through wrapping the chain around her neck, her expression changed. It went from confusion to shock to anguish. "Ron," she choked out. Her fingers scrabbled at the chain around her neck. She turned to Draco. "What happened to Ron?" Her fingers gripped his wrist. "Where's Ron?" Her face was pale. Her mouth opened and closed without anything coming out. Her eyes widened and she stiffened. She started to convulse slightly, shudders running through her body. Draco drew back, ready to call a healer if necessary. But suddenly her eyes went vacant and her grip went slack and she started to collapse. Draco caught her before she could fall of the edge of the bed. Hoisting her up, he laid her on the bed and cleared off the presents, setting them on her bedside table. By the time he was done, he realized he was crying.

Trying to control himself, Draco sank into the armchair next to Hermione's bed. For a long while he sat there, next to her unconscious form, his head in his hands. After what felt like ages he got up and, with one last, long glance at his sleeping wife, he left the room.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Malfoy! How is she?" Healer Horny asked, looking up from her work.

"She was… all right. She's unconscious now, though. Probably asleep," he added, seeing the worried look that crossed the healer's face. "I think she just tired herself out from the excitement"

"All right then. Happy Holidays, Mr. Malfoy." The healer nodded and smiled at him. Malfoy simply nodded back and swept out of the room.

**xxxxx**

Back at his apartment, Draco threw his coat down on the couch and sat next to it, feeling dejected. He tried to cheer himself up by reminding himself that she had known who he was, but it didn't work. All he could remember were her convulsions, her anguish, her sudden loss of consciousness. He buried his face in his hands. It was too hard, being able to remember what happened when she barely did, rarely did. The war. The deaths of so many friends. Their budding relationship, so fragile that Draco had always been scared to make a move lest he shatter it. Tentative romance. And then their wedding. The short-lived honeymoon. Living together, talking about raising a family. And then her disappearance.

Draco shuddered, remembering how it felt. The anguish, the hopelessness. The anger at the Ministry for being unable to find her. Harry's visits, always finding him with a bottle of Firewhisky in hand, more often than not with many already on the floor. Not caring for himself anymore. And then the alarm that was raised when she turned up, out of the blue, in the lobby of St. Mungo's in the dark hours before dawn. It pained Draco to remember how quickly relief had changed into anguish once more. She had not remembered him, any of them –not in the recent times, at least. She had lashed out at him, calling him a pureblood prat, demanding an explanation from Harry as to why he and Draco were suddenly friends. And she had been wandless.

Nobody knew what had caused this. The healers, brilliant though they were touted to be, had come up with nothing. From what they could tell, it was very similar to a Muggle disease called Alsee- Alzai- Draco couldn't pronounce it. But she had been cursed, since they had detected trace amounts of magic around her. She had been in that fourth floor ward ever since.

A thump on his window broke through Draco's reminiscing and he jumped up, wand at ready. Instead of a human, though, he saw a slightly ruffled owl fly unsteadily back up to the glass and tap it with its foot. Warily, he pried open the window and let the owl in. It perched on the sill and held out its foot. Tied to the owl was a sizeable package, badly wrapped in brown paper. Draco recognized the handwriting on top as Kingsley's scrawl. _The Minister's handwriting, _he mentally corrected himself. Untying the package and giving the owl a few Knuts as a tip, he returned to the couch to examine the delivery.

Upon tearing open the wrapper, he discovered the bulky parcel contained a notebook, some items of jewelry, a few splinters of wood, and a few pieces of hair. Sifting through this, he also found a note, also in Kingsley's handwriting. Setting the other objects on his lap, he opened the note.

_Draco-_

_The Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Auror Office have just agreed to release the evidence taken from Mrs. Hermione Malfoy (nee Granger) upon her arrival at St. Mungo's a few years ago. I apologize for the time lapse, but you of all people should be aware of the regulations regarding evidence in high priority, top-secret cases. They assume the splinters are pieces of her wand, since the wood matches her wand's description. The hair is also hers. The jewelry has undergone several tests that have fortunately not damaged any of them. I believe one of them is her engagement ring. The notebook was found around her neck, strung on a chain, magically shrunk. It has been identified as a diary of sorts, which I ordered be left untouched, out of respect for Hermione's privacy. You may read it at your discretion, but I implore you to report to me (or any Auror, for that matter) any information you deem pertinent to the search for Hermione's attackers._

_My regards to Hermione should she remember me, and Happy Holidays._

_Minister._

Draco picked up the ring, a simple gold band set with the solitaire diamond surrounded by brilliant green emeralds. It was indeed their engagement ring. Draco still remembered the night he had offered it to her. He set it down. It hurt to look at.

He brushed away the splinters and the hair, his curiosity turning on the diary. He had not been aware that Hermione had kept one. It looked worn, the binding wrinkled and peeling slightly, the pages tattered at the edges. Why had she been carrying it with her? He opened it carefully, afraid it might disintegrate in his hands.

_This diary belongs to: __Hermione Jean Granger._

Draco read the first page, noting the name that had been neatly printed into the blank. Granger. So they hadn't been married then. Turning to the first page, he read.

**xxxxx**

_I don't know why I decided to keep a diary. I think it's because there's so much inside me, so many thoughts and feelings, that I can't share to anyone. I mean, I __**can **__talk to people. I can tell Harry and Ginny and _(and here, Draco noted there was a name scratched out) _and Draco_,_ but it just isn't enough. It's gotten to the point where my heart and mind are so full of chaos I could never fully share it to anyone._

_It's a month after the war ended. I'm in a spare room in Grimmauld Place. Harry's helping Ginny cook downstairs. Those who are left of us are trying to go on with life as much as we can. Molly's upstairs. She hasn't had the heart to do any housework ever since the deaths. I'm surprised Harry and Ginny have been able to act somewhat close to normal. No, wait. I'm not surprised. They've always been strong. I've tried to be, but there's only so much I can bear. I'm glad to be alone for a change. It's a different silence, a good silence. Not the silence of unspoken pity and grief._

_I dreamt about the war again, last night. I've been dreaming about it so much. I don't think I can help it. My mind just keeps reliving every moment of that horrible day, when Hogwarts was attacked. I still shudder from the trauma. But perhaps writing it down will help._

_We weren't prepared for the attack. After we'd returned to Hogwarts, we tried our best to warn everyone, put up defenses. It wasn't enough. Voldemort's army _(shaky writing and smudged letters –she'd been crying? Draco wondered) _came and it was all just too much. We were almost hopelessly outnumbered. There were Death Eaters everywhere and curses were flying and people were falling over. _ _I saw Lupin go down and nearly screamed. Tonks went after his attacker and I didn't see what happened after. I was caught in a battle with another Death Eater, a young one. It was getting harder and harder to counter each curse as I saw friend after friend fall. A Gryffindor only a little younger than myself, whom I'd never really spoken to, fell to Bellatrix' killing curse. I saw her point her wand at Ginny and heard Mrs. Weasely's cry –NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH. I didn't stay to see the onslaught. I Stunned my assailant and ran upstairs, taking to higher ground in hopes of being able to hit better. But once I'd reached a landing a stray spell hit me and I fell, immobilized. The stone banisters of the castle temporarily hid me from enemies, but through the gaps I could see everything that was going on. I don't think I've ever known such hatred and despair since –being able to see all the chaos going around but unable to do anything about it. I struggled against the spell, but to no avail. I could only lie and watch._

_It was a horrible sight. Harry was nowhere to be seen, being under his cloak. Mrs. Weasely took a jet of red light to her back and fell. Bellowing in rage, Ron took over her battle. Bellatrix only cackled and turned her wand on her new opponent. Ginny was fighting two Death Eaters at once, holding her ground, but I could see her weakening. Still, she was doing well. I watched as she shot a Bat Bogey Hex at both her opponents and laughed a little inside. Fred and George were throwing Weasely's Wizarding Wheezes products everywhere. Things exploded, powder wafted through the air, Death Eaters turned into canaries and piglets or started puking and breaking out into boils. But more and more people on our side were falling to the curses of Voldemort's allies. We weren't enough._

_Kingsley appeared in my line of vision, battling three Death Eaters. He slashed the air before him and his attackers fell, bleeding. On the other side of the hall, Tonks had her back to a wall as five Death Eaters surrounded her. Fred hurled something their way and a puff of black smoke engulfed Tonks' assailants. Percy suddenly popped up and managed to stun two of them. Before he could do more, a jet of green light caught him squarely in the back. I don't think I could ever forget the expression on Fred's face as he saw his brother fall, the grin of triumph forever frozen on his face. My own heart felt like it had just been trampled by stampeding elephants. Percy couldn't be… No…_

_Fred jumped into the scene, shooting curses violently, determined to avenge Percy. One Death Eater after another fell to his wrath… I never thought I'd ever see Fred shoot a Killing Curse. But his brother's killer fell to a blast of green light. Suddenly, I felt a lightness and I found I could move again. Shaking my limbs, I stood up… only to see a sight that would forever be ingrained in my heart._

_The sight of Ron falling to the ground, green light fading from Bellatrix' wand, a maniacal and triumphant grin spreading across her face._

_I don't remember much of what I did after. I can remember the shock, the grief, which quickly morphed into anger at the sight of Bellatrix' cruel happiness. I remember seeing red, gripping my wand so tightly I thought I might break it, throwing myself over the banister, landing just a few feet away from the woman who ripped out my heart. I remember screaming and rage and wanting to obliterate her, curse her off the face of this earth. I don't know what I did to her. The next thing I remember after that are hands pulling me away from her bloodied, mangled, unmoving form._

(More smudged words. The handwriting here was shakier. Draco himself was crying, remembering how empty Hermione had seemed, those first months after the war. How dead she had been.) _It was Draco. He had his arms around me, pulling me away from Bellatrix. I remember kicking at him, struggling to free myself so I could further damage that woman who had- who had- I can't say it. I don't even know why I'm still alive, still breathing, still thinking and feeling, when he's six feet underground and unable to do anything anymore. I don't know how anyone can function, when Ron's… gone. Seven year's he'd been by my side, loving me and caring for me and protecting me. I still can't bring myself to accept the fact that I won't ever see his mop of red hair anymore… won't ever hear his bad jokes, or watch him play wizard's chess, or let him copy off my work. I replay that image over and over in my head but I still can't face the reality that Ron… is dead._

_There. I've written it down. Ripped open the wound in my heart that had already begun to scab slightly. Life is pouring out of me again, like blood._

_Harry called a retreat, after that. Those of us who were left barricaded ourselves in the Room of Requirement. So few of us had been left. I scanned the room, looking for faces. Mrs. Weasely was sobbing on the floor, with Fred and George hugging her. To the side, Mr. Weasely was lying unmoving on the couch, but breathing. Ginny was in Harry's arms, her thin shoulders shaking. Tonks was nowhere to be found. Kingsley was nursing a cut shoulder. Neville sat with Luna's head on his lap, holding a bloodied piece of cloth to her forehead. Bill soothed a shaking, badly scratched Fleur, Charlie unconscious in front of them. Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick stood to the side. No one knew where Hagrid was. A few more Ravenclaws and Gryffindors were scattered among the couches. It was hard to believe this was all we had left. These were all the people we had left._

_Draco was the last to come. His left cheek had been cut, the blood trickling down to his robes. He paused, taking in the few remaining warriors. His eyes alighted on me and he walked toward me, a little hesitantly. He didn't speak, but simply placed a hand on my shoulder. I was grateful for his touch._

_We climbed back into the portrait to Aberforth's bar, trudging through the tunnels in silence. We levitated the unconscious. Mrs. Weasely hadn't stopped crying. Fred and George looked like they were dead. Ginny was simply putting one foot in front of the other; she stared at the ground, unseeing. Draco had his arm around me. Most of the adults had stayed to bury the dead, having heard Voldemort's announcement that he was allowing us to collect him. McGonagall had promised to return with the bodies of those dearest to us. I didn't think I could stand seeing Ron's dead body a second time, but it would be a small mercy to be able to give him a proper funeral._

_After seeing the students safely through the fireplace, where they would Floo home, we all returned to Grimmauld Place in silence. And here we are now. Grieving. Recuperating. And I'm writing this all down, even if it tears at my heart. I'm writing this, because I hope that one day we triumph, and I can look back at this and remember all the sacrifices that made the wizarding world a better place._

**xxxxx**

Draco closed the diary, his eyes hurting from reading as well as from crying. He rubbed angrily at his face. He didn't like to remember that day, the day he had exposed his betrayal to Voldemort and his family, the day he had fought alongside Hermione, not against her. After that he was as much as fugitive as they were. Feeling both emotionally and physically tired, he climbed upstairs to his bedroom, unable to bring himself to eat. As soon as his head hit the pillow he was asleep, falling prey to his dreams.

**xxxxx**

_A/N._

_Okay, I know this chapter was pretty intense, and a lot of you are probably stunned or very angry with me right now. Please don't be. I'm only writing what comes out of my head. Did I warn you that this fic would be dark? If I didn't, then I'm warning you now. It's going to be dark and very tragic, and Hermione's entries are only going to get worse (though there will be some good ones –if you choose to stick around, there'll be one of her wedding to Draco in the later chapters)._

_Also, about the (*)- having little knowledge of wizard jewelry, I have reinvented the typical charm bracelet, giving it a magical touch. By charm bracelet, I literally mean a __**charm **__bracelet: a bracelet containing a charm. In this case, the Color Change Charm. For example, if it contained the Cheering Charm, it would cause the wearer to be happy until taken off. Something like that._

_R&R?_


	3. Visits

_A/N. Sorry for the time lapse between updates. I've been a bit preoccupied with my other fic (Not Like This, also Dramione) and enrolling, and I just haven't been inspired enough for this story yet. Luckily (or not so luckily, from one point of view), the Deathly Hallows book decided to fall on my head a few days ago and gave me an idea (it popped open at a good chapter), and now I finally have the time and the ideas to write._

_On to the chapter!_

**xxxxx**

Draco woke with a start, surfacing from a nightmare. For a moment he was still in it, and he clutched wildly at his sheets, eyes wide and panicked. And then slowly, his mind came back to reality and he fell still, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his chest. He pushed away the blanket, feeling suddenly hot and sticky, even if it was nearly Christmas. His head dropped to his hands; his shoulder shook slightly; dry sobs wracked his chest. But even if he was no longer in its clutches, the nightmare was still lurking, in the folds of the sheets, in the shadows beneath his pillow, in the corners of his mind. It hung there, lay there, throbbing.

He'd had this nightmare countless of times before. It was really less of a nightmare and more of a torturous memory. The battle at Hogwarts. Standing in the Death Eater circle, summoned by the Dark Lord to watch his final triumph. Harry Potter, just standing there, in the face of death. Surrendering. The Dark Lord raising his wand and suddenly two voices cried out and his father's hand was closing around his wrist, hurting him, because one voice had been the Dark Lord's and the other had not been Harry's… but his. Crying out not in joy, but in anguish. Pleading. And then a flash of green light and the body was falling and Draco twisted his arm out of his father's grip and raced toward the fallen figure, heart racing. Most nights he had been looking into Harry's dead face and then the Death Eaters would come and take him away and he'd wrestle his way out and run to the castle, the cold laughter of the Dark Lord in his ears. He would run and something would hit the small of his back and his world would go green and the black and he'd wake up, heart pounding. But last night was not like most nights. Last night, when he'd run to the figure in the middle of the clearing and looked into its empty eyes, he found they weren't green. They were brown.

It had been Hermione.

Shuddering at the thought of her lifeless brown eyes, he drew his knees up, rested his forehead against them. _She's alive, _he told himself. _Alive. Insane, but alive. _He forced himself to breathe slower, counting the inhales and exhales in his head –a trick she had taught him to calm down. One, two, three… After a while, he felt his heartbeat return to normal. He stretched out and his hand touched paper and startled, he drew back. It was the diary. He picked it up, looked at its careworn pages. Remembered what he had read. He felt vomit rise in his throat and tried to throw the book away but couldn't. His curiosity was getting the better of him. Sighing, he stood up and, taking the book with him, went down for breakfast.

Draco deliberately ignored the diary as he cooked his eggs and made his toast and dug up some spam -a Muggle food he'd developed a liking for ever since Hermione had finally managed to get him to taste it. He'd been very reluctant, especially after she'd told him what it was. And it had looked absolutely revolting when raw. He deliberately ignored it as he sat down on the table with his breakfast, opening the paper so that it obstructed his view of the diary, which sat across the table from him. He deliberately ignored it as he read the news, first Muggle, then wizard, looking for familiar names or particularly strange events. He deliberately ignored it as he washed the dishes, put them away, turned on the television (another Muggle commodity he'd taken a liking to, although he was still confused by how it worked), tidied the living room a bit. But as lunchtime rolled around and he slowly ran out of things to do, his thoughts turned to the diary more and more often. Finally, after channel surfing for perhaps the fiftieth time (an expression he still didn't understand –surfing was what Muggles did on water, what did television have to do with that?), he gave an exasperated sigh and walked over to where he had left it, festering on the dining table. Hesitating, fearful of what he might read next, he brought it to the living room, lay down on the couch, opened it, and began to read.

**xxxxx**

_Draco just left._

_I don't know why I wrote that. It seemed significant, for some reason. He's been coming here a lot lately, though I don't know where he comes from when he arrives or where he goes to when he leaves. His presence has been an immense help, however. Many of us can't or don't want to leave this house yet, mostly for safety reasons. Harry especially. Ginny made him swear that until we had a solid plan to go by, he wouldn't set one toe outside Grimmauld Place, and I backed her up. Harry's always trying to act like the hero _(and here Draco smiled, because he heartily agreed), _and even if he thinks it's for the best his antics only make us worry even more. He keeps trying to shoulder everything on his own, that stubborn boy. But Draco helps. He brings news from the outside, so we're updated with the movement of Voldemort and his followers, as well as other things. They're lying low for now, thank Merlin. Only a few Muggle killings and two razed towns. I know it's nothing to be thankful for, but the damage could be worse. And right now I just need hope to hold on to._

_I think that's why Draco's coming and going is so significant to me. He gives us hope. By telling us these things, by keeping us connected, however weakly, to the outside world, he gives us hope. He's our only link to the real world. I can't bear to think of what would happen if we lost him somehow. We've already lost so many people so close to our hearts…_

_He came up to check on me, after he'd spoken to Harry and Ginny. He'd brought me some soup, which tasted much better than yesterday's. He made a small joke about Harry's improvement in cooking. I actually cracked a smile at that. He'd also brought a few books, bought on the sly. He wouldn't tell me where he got them, or from whom. It was a nice gesture. I actually felt almost happy. He stayed and talked to me a little. I think he was trying to cheer me up. I was grateful. Harry has Ginny, and Mr, and Mrs. Weasely have each other, and Fred and George are always together, and Neville's with Luna and everyone else is off living their own lives and I'm all alone here, with no one. I know everyone's here for me and they've been comforting me as best as they can… but I want someone special. Someone all to myself._

_Not that I think of Draco in that way. He's simply a good friend and comrade. But it was nice of him to do that. I don't know if anyone's realized how lonely I've been; I've tried not to show it so much. But without Ron, things just feel so… empty. It's like a large part of me is missing, and I can't remember how it felt to have it there. I feel so… disconnected, from the others, from life. I just spend my days up in this room, occasionally going down for meals, but mostly just up here. Writing. So I really am grateful that Draco's trying to fill that void, even just a little. Even if he doesn't realize it._

_He's changed so much, these past months. Ever since Professor Snape finally managed to turn him to our side (I'll never know how he managed, seeing as he's… gone, but we are incredibly and eternally grateful to him for it), he's been so different from the Slytherin boy who used to taunt me about my teeth. He's grown up, physically, emotionally and mentally. He's quieter now, more moody, though he tries to lighten things a little, in his own way. And he's gotten so thin. While talking today I noticed his cheeks were hollow, his expression gaunt, however he tried to smile. His bones stick out. I wonder if he's been eating. I worry that here is the only place he can actually eat. Oh, I wish he'd listened and taken Harry's offer to stay here._

_Oh Merlin, what am I saying. He can't stay here. We'd need a link to the outside, somehow. I hate that he's risking his life by living free, like that, but I'm thankful. And… _(And here, Draco observed that many words had been written and violently crossed out) _if I'm really honest, I'm jealous. I want to be outside, too. To have firsthand knowledge of what's going on and not rely on someone else' story; to be able to stroll down an actual street and not just pace across a room; to be able to really feel the sunshine and the breeze and the rain, not just watch them from a window. To live._

_As Draco turned to leave today, I felt the urge to go after him, to grab on to him and beg him to take me with him. But then his hand touched the doorknob and I stayed in my seat and he turned to me and I stayed in my seat and he said goodbye and god, why did I stay in my seat? _(Smudged words. She'd been crying.) _And then he left and the urge went with him and the hollowness and emptiness came and sat by me. And now I'm just here, in my seat. Writing about it._

_I hope he comes back soon. I hope he stays with me again, just for a short while. I hope._

**xxxxx**

Draco looked up from his reading as his fireplace chimed. Someone was trying to Floo in. Shoving the diary under a cushion (he didn't feel much like sharing it with anyone just yet), he got up and peered into the flames. Harry's face peered back at him.

"Think you could let me in, mate?" he said. Draco grinned.

"What if I don't want to?"

"I'll come over there and blast your door open. I have my rights as an Auror, you know." Harry grinned back.

"I don't think those rights include unlawful entry of a Ministry wizard's home. But fine," he chuckled, tapping the figurine on top of the fireplace that allowed him to control who could Floo into his apartment and who couldn't. "Enter."

"Thanks, mate," Harry replied, stepping out of the fireplace and dusting the soot off his robes.

"Cup of tea? While I'm still standing."

"While you're still standing? What's that supposed to mean?" Harry asked, taking off his cloak and hurling it onto a nearby stool.

"Going once, going twice," Draco said, edging closer to the couch.

"Draco, what-"

"Too late." Draco flopped back down on the couch, an evil grin on his face. "You'll have to make your own tea now."

Harry laughed. "Unfair bastard."

"Once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin," Malfoy smirked up at him. Harry just laughed again and made his way to the kitchen. Draco had pulled similar tricks on him in the past. He didn't know why he kept falling for them. He'd have to remedy that, somehow.

Harry's voice carried out to Draco over the sounds of tea being made. "So, have you visited Hermione lately?"

Draco's smile instantly vanished. He bit the inside of his cheek, unwilling to answer. Suddenly, letting Harry in didn't seem like a very good idea. His sullen expression returned, the old one from Hogwarts, from the days after the fight. The expression he wore when he didn't really want to talk to or be around anyone. His father had hated it. So had Snape.

"Draco?" Harry asked again, carrying two cups of tea into the living room. He set one down in front of Draco, sipped from the other one, standing awkwardly over him, expectant. Draco sighed.

"Yeah," he mumbled, looking away, at the couch fibers. Some of the threads were coming loose. Draco picked at them.

"How is she?" Harry pressed, finally settling down in the armchair diagonally across the couch.

Draco took a while to answer. What could he say? And how could he say it? That she hadn't remembered that her best friend of seven years was dead, or that the parents of her godson were as well? That she had been fine and happy until the locket supposedly from Ron had gone around her neck and then she fled to that place, that halfway point between remembering and not, a limbo of memory? That he'd had to watch her convulse in front of him, her eyes going back and the whites showing, and that he'd had to catch her when she'd nearly collapsed? And all this, when just two days ago she hadn't even remembered that she and Draco were married, that they had been through so much together? That he was no longer the "pureblood prat?" Draco had never been good at explaining, never been good at really telling things, not the personal and important things, at least. It was Hermione who had drawn him out, coaxed him to open up a little more. Hermione. It hurt Draco just to think of her name.

"She was… better. She has her good days and her bad days, you know that," he finally responded. It was vague and he knew it. Harry simply raised his eyebrows, but made no further comment. Draco half-smiled, grateful that he hadn't been pressed. For all his faults, Harry at least knew when to keep quiet and let Draco tell him in his own time.

"You haven't visited her lately?" Draco asked, by way of shifting the conversation away from him.

"Couldn't. I've been backed up at the office. Suspicious accidents happening left and right, though half of them turn out to be simple family squabbles. You know, a few days ago a Muggle was found unconscious in her apartment with the place torn apart, but with no signs of forced entry or a struggle? Turns out her next-door neighbors were this big bunch of wizards who'd been staying together and they'd gotten quite drunk and left their door open. When the Muggle opened her door to investigate the noise, several spells shot out of the wizards' place and one caught her in the chest. Stunning spell, we think. The others must have caused the havoc in her living room. And I got called from dinner with Ginny for that!" Harry recounted, laughing. Draco found himself laughing, too. He was always grateful for Harry's company, especially after nights like the last one. Draining his tea, he lay back, his arm over his eyes.

"…do you think she'll ever get better?" Draco lifted his arm and saw Harry, both hands wrapped around his tea cup, staring intently at the edge of the small coffee table in front of him. He ran his eyes over the furrowed brow, the long bangs hiding the expression in his eyes. Harry looked up suddenly and Draco looked away, not wanting to see what those green eyes held. Not wanting to see the hopelessness that already raged inside his own heart.

"The healers… they said it could be possible. If they just knew what spell was used…"

"So they still haven't figured it out," Harry said quietly.

Draco didn't understand his reaction, but for some reason, Harry's remark snapped something inside him. Maybe it was just the stress from the past week, from seeing Hermione both mental and lucid, from work and from worrying and from reliving painful memories through her diary. Maybe. But whatever the reason, Draco suddenly felt the anger boil in his veins and saw the red flash in his eyes and he rounded on Harry, feeling ready to punch him.

"Of course they haven't figured out the bloody spell yet, you Gryffindor prat!" Draco shouted, shaking. He felt so out of control; he couldn't hold himself back. "If they'd found it she'd be okay by now, she'd be home, wouldn't that be obvious? If they'd found the cure, Harry, she'd be here, with us! Since she obviously isn't, _obviously, _she's not better. Obviously they haven't figured it out. Or are you too stupid to figure that out, Potter?" He kicked the couch in frustration.

"I'm sorry, _Malfoy, _I'm just trying to console myself here! In case you haven't noticed, the rest of us here care as much for Hermione as you do! We all want to see her get better, so excuse me for being a little disappointed that we're no closer to figuring this out than we ever have been, you Slytherin git!" Harry shouted back, getting up from his seat. His tea cup fell to the floor and shattered.

"She's my wife, Potter! Do you think I like seeing her like this, when half the time she can't even remember who I am?" They were both on their feet, staring at each other across the coffee table, eyes flashing. Draco hadn't realized it, but his hand had gone instinctively to his wand.

"And she's my best friend, and she has been longer than she's been friends with you. Look, Draco, I know you're upset. We all are," Harry said, trying to calm down. To calm both of them down. Fighting wouldn't do anything. "We all just want to see her better. It hurts us too."

Draco kicked the couch again, but this time more to be stubborn than to relieve his frustration. He knew Harry was right. He didn't have a monopoly on Hermione. With a long sigh, he sat back down. "Sorry. I'm just… I'm worried. About her."

"I know," Harry replied. He looked down at the broken cup. "Sorry about that, mate."

"It's all right. I can fix it."

"I've got it." Harry drew his wand and gave it a wave, muttering "Reparo." Instantly the cup pieced itself back together and flew to the tabletop. For a few moments, the two men just stood there, looking awkwardly at the ground. Draco didn't know what to do. He was glad Harry had come to check on him, but he didn't really feel up to entertaining company anymore.

"Well," he said, unsure of what to say.

"I think I'd better go. The office might need me. I just wanted to check up on you, anyway." Harry went and picked up his coat. Turning to Draco, he frowned. "You gonna be all right, mate?"

"Yeah." Draco rubbed his forehead and forced a smile. "Yeah, I'm good." Harry nodded, and with a wave, stepped into the fireplace and whooshed out of sight.

Draco stood for a long moment, calming himself down. Heading over to the fireplace, he tapped the figurine again. He leaned against the shelf above the fireplace, sighing. The apartment suddenly felt so small. He walked back to the couch, picked up his own coat. He glanced down at the cushion and after a second's hesitation, pulled out the diary and pocketed it. Then he stepped out of the apartment. He needed to go somewhere to think, and he knew just where to do it.

**xxxxx**

_A/N. There we go! Hopefully this chapter isn't too lacking. Tell me what you think (aka review me)! I'll try to update this again soon, but no guarantees. School's already started so I won't have as much time to write. But I'll try my best!_


	4. Come Back To Me

_A/N. Hooray for updating! If you guys get bored with waiting, you're perfectly welcome to browse my other fics, including my ongoing one, Not Like This. And now that my shameless plugging is done, on to the chapter!_

**xxxxx**

Draco stepped into the small Muggle café that stood a few blocks from his apartment. He'd stumbled upon it a few months ago, and had instantly liked the quiet atmosphere, simple design and homey feel. The armchairs were soft and slightly worn, but not tattered and tacky. The coffee was good; the clientele were few but regular, the staff friendly but not prying. Draco placed his usual order of Irish cream and made his way to a table near the back.

Settled into a comfortable seat, he took Hermione's diary out of his coat pocket and studied it. He'd already figured out it was a Muggle diary; wizard diaries tended to have specialproperties, like the ability to correct the owner's spelling or squeaking when an important event was scheduled on that day. He ran his fingers over the dark red cover. It was felt, or maybe velvet. It was a little too worn for him to be sure. A thin, dark green ribbon served as a bookmark. Draco opened it. The inside cover was black, a stiff sort of paper. The statement of ownership was written in silver script, Hermione's name filled in with some strange, shiny red ink. (*) It was, physically, an unremarkable diary. Draco's journals at home were much more ornate, with intricately engraved covers and fine silk bookmarks.

Staring at the diary, Draco's thoughts began to drift toward its owner. Much like her diary, Hermione was worn and tattered. Draco would and could never forget the sight of her, when she'd mysteriously appeared at St. Mungo's after her disappearance. The sight of his wife on the hospital bed was branded into his mind. Her body, once healthy, had been wraith-like, her bones jutting out, her skin almost translucent. Her hair had been matted and uneven, some parts only an inch long. She had been covered in scratches and scars and bruises, and she had been shaking. And her eyes… Draco shuddered inwardly. Her normally warm brown eyes had been spinning in their sockets, looking at everything without really seeing anything, with madness inside them. And when her eyes had rested on him, she hadn't recognized him, not even as The Ferret.

His coffee arrived and Draco took a few sips, if only to have something to do so he could calm down. It never stopped being painful, and he doubted that it ever would, even if she were cured. It never stopped hurting to see his wife, his beautiful, brilliant wife, lying on those white sheets, delirious and screaming. Even on her good days, her forgetfulness chafed at the raw parts of his heart, where he could remember everything that seemed to be gone from her mind. On her bad days, well, he would always leave before he broke down.

He opened the diary, leafing through the pages to the entry where he had stopped reading. It reopened wounds, ripped through old scars, reading the diary did. But Draco knew he had to. Because when he had first opened it, it had been out of curiosity, but now Draco knew he was reading in the hopes that somewhere in its pages, the diary held a clue to Hermione's madness.

**xxxxx**

_Draco came again today. It was in the middle of lunch, if I can even call it that. It was really more of me eating an end of a bread loaf with the last of the butter. I was alone in the kitchen, nibbling at the bread, trying not to think about what ifs and I-could-haves. I don't think he'd expected anyone to be there, judging by the way he looked at me. He'd probably hoped that he could just leave them on the kitchen counter and go. He was carrying a few tattered tote bags, which bulged in odd ways._

"_I brought food." His words were awkward and halting, and I would have laughed if I still knew how. I helped him unload the packages. He'd brought quite a lot; bread, oatmeal, milk, cheese, fruits, even coffee. Also meat –some sausages, a chunk of beef, half a chicken. I tried asking him where he found it all, but he didn't answer. Now I wish I'd pressed him. I can't stand the thought of him out there, risking his life finding food for us. Toast isn't worth his death._

_Draco seems to be getting thinner every day. I wonder where he sleeps, if he eats. Every time I see him I feel this urge to mother him. I think I just need someone to care for. I think I also need someone to care for me. Without Ron I feel so alone in this house, a house that while physically filled, is emotionally empty. Harry spends a lot of his time just sitting in Sirius' old room, or so Ginny told me over the one breakfast we've had together. Ginny just tries to sleep a lot, or reads books from the library. I don't hear much from the other people in this house. The Weaselys mostly keep to themselves, though sometimes I hear the twins' voices. They don't make jokes anymore; if anything, they're just as dead as the rest of us. I find that unbearably sad. Before the last battle, we always knew we could count on those two to lighten up the atmosphere and keep us in good spirits, or as close to them as was possible. Now it's like the cheer has been sucked right out of them, as if with the loss of their siblings they lost all ability to be happy as well._

_We're all broken, all of us in this house. We don't smile, we don't laugh; we barely even speak to each other. Harry tries to drop by and check how I'm doing, but it feels off. I think we both feel the void that's there, the empty space that used to have red hair and freckles and laughter. It's hard to talk. Back when we were travelling, when Ron…walked out on us, we didn't mind the void so much because we both knew that sometime, somehow, he would come back to us. We had that hope. But now that hope is gone; we are utterly devoid of his presence. Ron will never come back. And it feels like even Harry's disappearing, the way he's wasting away in front of me. He seems to get skinnier and skinnier, disappearing into himself. It scares me. If Harry were to disappear, I don't know what I'd do with myself. I don't think I'd be able to live._

_As for Draco… I still don't know why I did it, but after Draco and I had unloaded the food, I asked him to stay for lunch. It was probably his thinness, his pallor. Thankfully he agreed, and took some toast. I didn't feel much like cooking so I couldn't serve any meat, but he didn't complain. He simply sat there, quiet and brooding, chewing his bread with jam._

_I wonder what happened to the boy who used to taunt me about my hair and horrible teeth, the smirking, pale boy who was so much like his father. I wonder what changed him, what made him into the dark, silent young man who sat in front of me this afternoon. I realized then, that while I knew everything that had happened to the residents of this house, and even our closest friends and allies outside of it, I did not know how the war had affected Draco. I wonder, now, who he has lost, if his parents are still alive, if all his possessions are intact. I wonder if, like us, he has lost something precious. I wonder if he still sees his friends, or if they have alienated him because he fights for us now. I wonder what the war has done to him, to make him seem as broken as the rest of us in this forlorn house, of which we cannot find it in ourselves to call home._

_I wonder why I'm thinking about Draco so much._

_When he left, I felt this longing to ask him to stay, to plead with him, somehow. Strangely, I want him here, I want him around, if only to know that he's safe, and that he has somewhere to return to at night. But I did not act on it. Instead, I simply stood mutely in the hallway as he gathered up his cloak and nodded at me in farewell. And I still stood there, long after the pop of his Disapparating had faded._

_Why do I suddenly care about him so much? Is it because he risked his life for us, that fateful day at Hogwarts, and still does so until now? Perhaps. He is important to me, to all of us, because of what he did and does. I think I would not be the only one to mourn if we lost him. We would all be devastated._

_I hope he comes back tomorrow. Somehow I feel like in this house of ghosts and people acting like ghosts, he's what keeps me sane._

**xxxxx**

Draco's heart clenched at that last sentence. _He's what keeps me sane. _No he wasn't, not anymore. He hadn't been able to protect her, hadn't kept her safe, and then one day she had disappeared and come back without her mind. He hadn't kept her sane. And he couldn't make her sane again.

He stared at the small diary. It seemed like such a fragile and commonplace item, to be holding such great hopes –and great fears. There seemed to be much Hermione hadn't told him, about those post-war days in Grimmauld Place. She hadn't wanted to speak of them, much, when she still knew what she was saying. In the early days of their tentative romance, and even sometimes around the time they'd gotten married, Draco had tried asking her about them. But Hermione always grew silent and deflected any questions, after a while simply telling his she didn't want to think about them.

His hand loosely wrapped around his now-cold cup of coffee, Draco thought back to his own post-war experience. He had declined Harry's offer to stay in Grimmauld Place, although he knew he would be safer there, and better taken care of. He hadn't wanted to stay somewhere he wouldn't exactly feel welcome in. Despite Harry's offer, he could see the reluctance in the eyes of the rest of the small group gathered in the living room of the dusty house. Even if he'd joined them, turned traitor to his own family and fought against the Dark Lord, they could not fully accept him. He had tormented Harry and his friends for years, had almost become a Death Eater (Draco still shuddered at that), and had been and still was a Malfoy. They would have been civil toward him, to be sure; he would have been tolerated. But he would never have been accepted.

Though, having read this diary… Draco nearly broke down in the café. In reading this diary, he found out how much Hermione had cared. Even if he had taunted her all those years in school, had been the son of the man who had caused much of her misery, she had cared. She had accepted him. She had wanted him there. She had never told him much about how she'd felt about him, in those months after the battle at Hogwarts. And now he knew.

"Come back to me, Hermione," he whispered, his tears dotting the pages of the diary like hers had, so many years ago.

**xxxxx**

_A/N. Short chapter is short, I know, and I don't even think I did a very good job of it. I'm trying to think up the next chapter already, and hopefully it'll be a nice, long one! Again, R&R, much appreciated!_


	5. A Drunken Memory

_A/N. Okay, I realized I'd forgotten to explain the (*) in the last chapter. Too lazy to edit that document, so I'll just place it here. Draco, being a wizard, obviously does not know about gel pens and how we Muggles can use them to write on dark-colored paper (or any other paper for that matter)._

_Thank you so much to those who reviewed. Now, on with the chapter!_

**xxxxx**

Draco wandered through the streets, his collar turned up against the chill. He didn't really know where he was going, but he couldn't face going back to the apartment just yet. People rushed past him, jostling him and stepping on his feet and cursing at him in that peculiar way Muggles have. He mostly just stepped aside, muttered apologies, ducked his head. He'd learned it was best not to antagonize people in a hurry.

It started to rain and the symphony of umbrellas being opened started to play around him. He didn't have one of his own, but it didn't really matter to him. The drizzle got into his hair and plastered it to his skin, and he could feel it seeping into his clothes, chilling him. It didn't really matter. He weaved through the throng of human flesh and beating hearts; he stepped into puddles and got splashed in turn. But for some reason, it didn't really matter. All he could feel was emptiness. Suddenly, even if it was only five in the afternoon, Draco felt the need for a drink.

He turned on his heel, walked toward the nearest pub, a boisterous, crowded place where there were Muggle games called darts and billiards. The bartender nodded at him when he entered; he'd been here often enough, getting a few drinks with friends or just coming down for a pint on a cold day. When Hermione had been missing, Harry would often find Draco with bottles of Firewhisky at home, mumbling incoherently or simply sobbing. But after Hermione had shown up in her garbled state, Draco had chucked all the remaining bottles in his stash into a nearby bin. He'd sworn he would be strong for her. He hadn't gotten drunk since. But now, well… the emptiness was just too much.

His feet were taking him to the bar. His hand was going to his pocket. The money was coming out, crumpled and slightly tattered. It was changing hands. He didn't know what he asked for, but a shot glass was thrust into his hand. He downed it, the liquid burning his throat. It wasn't beer. Muggle drinks were so much better than Firewhisky. He rapped the glass down on the bar top, demanding another shot. It was poured. He downed it. Rapped the counter again.

His vision began to blur quite nicely. Draco found the emptiness fading –or rather, being filled up with this strange drink. He was feeling much better, maybe even a little cheered up. Delighted at this, he called for a round of the shots for the people around him. The alcoholics and drunkards cheered. They raised their glasses together and toasted to –Draco did not know, but it was bound to be something good. He looked around at the faces of the company: at the man in a football jersey; at the young man trying to act much older than he was; at the girl in the corner with her curly brown hair and warm brown eyes…

Brown eyes. Draco's world started spinning as he slumped down onto the bar, his hand clenched around the shot glass. Brown eyes. He hiccupped, and laughed at himself for the way he was acting. Brown eyes. He was pathetic, a pathetic person who couldn't stop laughing. Brown eyes. Wild, unseeing, hate-filled brown eyes, and a memory…

**xxxxx**

_Draco sat on the couch in his apartment. He hadn't moved in the last two days, not even to eat. He simply sat and looked at the sweater he held in his hands, a red sweater with a small ink stain on the collar. Her sweater._

_She'd worn it the night before she disappeared. They'd gone out to dinner, a small Italian place a few blocks over that was getting good reviews. She'd worn it with a scarf, a gray one, to match his eyes. She loved his eyes. They were like mirrors and fog and rainy days and moonlight. Or so she had told him once. They had been in bed, skin to skin; he had laughed. Her hair had smelled of strawberries._

_Her scent had long since worn off, but Draco still clutched at the sweater, at the dregs of her essence. Clutched at anything that might remind her of who she was, of her existence. Anything that might keep him hoping for her return._

_Where had she gone? Why had she left –without a word, without a note? Not even a goodbye. Draco had simply woken up the day after to find her gone, her sweater on the chair beside their bed, where her wand should have been. He had waited and waited, but she hadn't come back. Finally, he alerted Harry, who racked up the entire Auror office (and a few other Ministry employees) to find her. But they never found a trace. No one remembered seeing her. Magical location tricks failed. It was almost as if she didn't want to be found._

_At first Draco had been angry. He had railed at Harry, at the Aurors, at Hermione even if she could not hear him. Where was she? Why couldn't they find her? They weren't doing enough, there had to be something more –spells, trackers, anything. He had often been drunk when he yelled. Harry would patiently take the bottle from his hands, force him to sleep and eat. Harry had Disarmed him when he'd gotten violent, had even stunned him once when he'd almost cursed a young Auror who'd been reporting to Harry. He'd always come out of these bursts of rage and break down with guilt and loneliness and drink some more. A vicious cycle, Hermione would call it._

_Hermione. Where was she? Draco lay down on the couch, pressing his face to the warm red fabric of the sweater. Why had she left him, without saying anything at all? Was she still alive, was she still out there? Why couldn't they find her?_

_Draco sobbed into the sweater unabashedly. He had long since given up controlling his tears. How could you control loneliness and terror and hopelessness and anger? How could anyone rein all of that in? How could anyone live like this, knowing that the person they had given their heart to, the person they would die for, was gone… and might never come back?_

_There was a bottle of Firewhisky by his foot. He got up and grabbed it. Half of it still remained. He quickly brought the bottle to his lips, drank down a mouthful, winced as it seared his throat. The warmth didn't drive away the numbness. He downed another mouthful, dropped the sweater to the floor. Drank again. And again, hoping that somewhere in the bottom of the bottle, there was the saving grace of unconsciousness, or at the very least, an inebriated state._

_But as he was about to down the last mouthful, his fireplace chimed. Wobbling slightly, feeling his way through the semi-darkness, he stood up. The fireplace chimed again and he stepped on the sweater, trying to make his way over to the shelf. Wobbling, he finally got there, and (after a few attempts) tapped the figurine. Harry immediately whirled into view, stepped out of the fireplace, looked around. He looked desperate._

"_Wha's gottento you, Potter?" Draco asked, his words slurring slightly. Harry turned around and something in his eyes made Draco's heart clench. He knew that if they'd found Hermione alive, Harry would be ecstatic, and if she were dead he would be devastated. But Draco couldn't place the emotion in those green eyes. There was relief, but also a wild sadness and desperation. And confusion. Draco could read through Harry's eyes that he was lost._

"_It's…" Harry couldn't seem to get it out. He looked at Draco, then at the floor, running his hands through his hair. "It's Hermione." Draco felt as if his heart had stopped. Suddenly he felt completely sober. "We've found her."_

_Something caught in Draco's throat and he almost fell. Catching himself on a nearby chair, he looked up at Harry through whisky-tinged eyes, looking for some sign that he wasn't serious. Had they really found her? His heart thudded in his chest and his legs felt weak and for a moment Draco was scared he would die. But he managed to choke out the words "take me to her." Without another word, Harry grabbed Draco's arm and together they stepped into the fireplace._

_When they finally stepped out, Draco realized they were in St. Mungo's. Though initially confused, he rationalized that this would be an intelligent place to take her. Perhaps she had been injured while she'd been gone. Draco was so wrapped up in his increasing relief that he didn't notice the somber look of the nurses or the steely look in Harry's eyes. All he could think about was that Hermione, his Hermione, his beloved, was finally back._

_They got into the lift. Draco leaned against the back wall, emotions racing through him. What had happened to her? How had they found her? Was she all right? He looked at Harry, hoping his demeanor might provide some idea, but Harry simply stood, rigid as a board, staring at the elevator doors. Draco thought of asking, but something about the way Harry held himself made him think otherwise. Finally, the elevator stopped at the fourth floor. They got out._

_Expecting to enter the main ward for spell damage, Draco was confused when Harry walked right past the other wards and made his way to the ward at the end. All the strength seemed to drain from inside Draco. Not that ward… Surely not… He stumbled after Harry, panicking._

"_Harry? Mate, what's going on?" All his usual formal tones and eloquence faded at the look on Harry's face. For the first time, Draco saw the anger in those green eyes, a fury he had never witnessed before, not even during their school days. His panic rose._

"_Draco…" Harry pursed his lips, obviously thinking of a good way to tell him… whatever it was that he needed to know. "Something's… happened, to Hermione. We're all still trying to figure it out. The Minister didn't want you seeing her until we'd gotten some headway into… whatever this is, but I told him you'd need to see her." His gaze dropped to the floor, the steely posture dropping away. He slouched, shaking slightly. "She's… she's not well, mate. They just found her in the lobby maybe half an hour ago. The staff alerted me right away and I came here and well…" Without another word, he opened the door._

_The first thing Draco heard was her voice, screaming. The first thing he saw was a whirlwind of brown curls and tattered robes. There she was, on the hospital bed, thrashing. Her eyes were wild, spinning around, unfocused. She was shrieking incoherently, syllables that didn't make any sense. She was clawing at the sheets, scrabbling at the pillows. She looked utterly, utterly mad._

_Draco couldn't move, couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight of his demented wife. Was this really his Hermione? This crazed waif fighting off the Healers, her bony hands clawed, her back hunched, her face like a skull? But then he saw the ring on her finger. It had only been for a brief moment, but there was no doubt. The solitaire diamond surrounded by tiny emeralds. It was her. What had happened to her?_

_Suddenly, as if sensing his thoughts, she turned and for the first time her eyes seemed to focus. She stopped screaming, abruptly, though her mouth continued to open and close. Draco followed her gaze and found she was staring at Harry's hand. Or, specifically, Harry's hand gripping his upper arm, not in anger, but in comfort and protectiveness._

"_Why is he here, Harry?" she demanded, her coherence catching all of us (including the Healers in the room) off guard. Harry pulled Draco behind him, an action Draco would have found insulting if he were capable of sparing a thought to anyone but Hermione. "Why are you protecting him?" She slid off the bed and immediately the Healers raised their wands. "What are you doing with him?" Suddenly her eyes moved to Draco and the rancor in them made his heart stop. "Draco Malfoy, you twisted, evil ferret, what have you done to Harry?"_

**xxxxx**

"Draco? Draco? Mate, wake up! Wake up, you stupid bastard!"

Draco felt someone shaking his shoulder, causing his head to hit the table a few times. Wincing in pain (from both the banging and something else), he tried to open his eyes. Light seared into them and he moaned, squeezing them shut. His right hand was touching something cold and wet, and he could smell something… alcohol. The smell of booze. Woozily, he tried lifting his head without opening his eyes. It took a while, but he got it. The voice calling his name sounded incredibly familiar. His head cleared a bit from sitting up, so he tried opening his eyes again. Green. Green with something glassy over them. A shock of black hair.

"Potter?" Draco mumbled, his head still spinning slightly.

"Merlin." He heard Harry sigh. "Come on, mate, you're piss drunk. We've got to get you home."

"No," Draco moaned, trying to push Harry's hands away as they gripped his arms. "I don't want to go back."

"Draco. You stink of tequila and cigarettes and your clothes are a mess and you've got drool on your face. You need to go home, take a shower, and go to bed." Draco felt a tug on his arms.

"I don't want to go back." He pulled back, felt the grip loosen from his arms, fell to the floor. Pain shot through his hip. He curled up a little, stubbornly.

"Draco…" He felt a hand shake his shoulder again. "Mate, you've got to go home."

"I said no." Draco burst into sobs, his body shaking. He reached out and found Harry's arm, and gripped it tightly. "I can't go back. It just reminds me of her. That whole place. It just reminds me of her. I can't take it." Draco felt a hand grip his arm and his sobs intensified. He couldn't see it, but Harry was crying too, silently. Draco continued to sob unrestrainedly, both hands gripping Harry's arms now. He gasped, feeling his chest constrict. "I want her back. It feels so empty without her. It feels wrong. I want her back."

Harry could only tighten his grip and whisper, "I know."

**xxxxx**

_A/N. So… did you like how I portrayed the night Hermione was found? Was this chapter convincing? R&R, much appreciated!_


	6. A Funeral and a Touch

_A/N. Thanks to those who reviewed! I honestly don't mind that there are only a few of you –I'm happy just knowing that there are people out there who really like what I write. To the person who requested a memory from Hermione's POV, stick around! You've given me an idea, but I don't want to use it just yet._

_And now, here's the next chapter!_

**xxxxx**

Draco woke the next morning with the world's worst hangover. His mouth tasted something awful and it felt like rhinos were stampeding over his head. Light was streaming in through his bedroom window and he buried his face into the pillow with a groan. He regretted waking up.

He couldn't remember much about last night. He knew he'd gone to the pub for a drink. He remembered downing shot after shot until his vision went blurry. He remembered slumping onto the bar, weighed down by the alcohol and immeasurable sadness. He did not, however, remember coming home. But there was something about green, something at the back of his mind…

Harry. Draco braced himself and slowly lifted his head off his pillow, keeping his eyes closed tightly. Carefully, he opened one eye, then the other, making sure to look down at the floor and not at the window. So far, so good. He stayed that way for a while, awkwardly hanging over his bed, propped up by his elbows. When his eyes had adjusted somewhat (though the pain in his head remained), he gingerly sat up.

"Whatever that tequila is, I am never having it again," he muttered to himself, rubbing his forehead. He looked up and saw a small bottle standing on his bedside table, on top of a note. His suspicions aroused, Draco scrabbled around for his wand. Finally finding it underneath his pillow, he cast a few spells on both the bottle and the note, trying to detect dark magic. Finding nothing, he picked up and examined the bottle. It seemed to contain a potion of sorts. He opened the note and immediately recognized Harry's scrawl.

_Draco-_

_You don't have to come in to work today. I'll talk to your superior. If you're hangover's what I think it will be, take the potion. It should help. I found a book of sorts on the floor next to you last night. It's on your desk. I opened it to check whether it was really yours, but don't worry, I didn't read any further than the title page. I hope you find what we're looking for in the pages of her diary._

_I'll check on you later when work's finished._

_Harry._

Draco smiled. Harry really was a good friend. It still surprised him, their friendship –how smoothly they had gotten over years of schoolboy animosity. Draco supposed turning over to the good side, supplying inside information, fighting for their side, and marrying Hermione Granger had helped, as had working together in the Ministry these past few years. He'd lost contact with many of his friends ever since the war, mostly because of where his loyalties had lain, though Blaise would still owl him every so often, if only to ask after work or his health. Their paths would cross occasionally in the Ministry, since Draco was working in Law Enforcement and Blaise in International Magical Cooperation, and they would nod at each other, but the friendship between them was lost. It hadn't been anything Draco hadn't expected –he'd known what he'd lose by joining Dumbledore's side. Though it still stung to see years of comradeship forgotten, all because of loyalties in the war.

Draco downed the potion and immediately began to feel better. He sensed it would be a while before his hangover faded completely, but the throbbing in his head had eased and he could stand the light. He also found he was hungry. He padded down to the kitchen for breakfast.

An hour later, after eating some pancakes and bacon and drinking some juice, Draco was feeling much better than when he'd woken up. The stench of last night still clung to him, though –a peculiar and slightly unpleasant scent of cigarettes and booze and sweat– so Draco went back upstairs to take a shower. On the way to his closet, his gaze fell on the diary, lying innocuously on his desk. _I hope you find what we're looking for. _Up until now, Draco hadn't considered what, precisely, he was looking for between those pages. An entry about what had happened? Impossible. She'd turned up at St. Mungo's already insane; he didn't see how she'd have managed to write down what had happened. Something about why she'd left? Possibly. He still didn't understand why she'd brought it with her, though. Why was it so important that she'd take it with her?

He pondered over the questions as the shower water beat down on his shoulders, the warm water sliding down his back. The shower cleared his head some more, but he still wasn't getting anywhere with his line of thinking. Why did she bring it? And why did it come back with her?

Finally, emerging from the shower and putting on a pair of loose, dark green drawstring pants, Draco picked up the diary and flicked through its pages. The early entries were mostly about life after the war: how they'd been getting on, Draco's comings and goings, her thoughts and worries about the occupants of Grimmauld Place and the one person outside of it. His heart felt like it would implode every time he read about her concerns for him, her want for him to have stayed at Grimmauld Place with them. Even then, she had cared for him so deeply, even if he hadn't been on their side for long. Merlin, how he missed her.

Skimming over the entries, Draco paused as the word _buried _caught his eye. Frowning, he looked down at the page. It was dated some weeks after the last entry he'd read. Settling onto his bed (and deciding to take up Harry's offer on missing work), he began to read.

**xxxxx**

_We left Grimmauld Place for the first time since the battle today. Under normal circumstances, I would have welcomed this opportunity with open arms. It's been so long since I've last felt the sun on my face and the grass between my toes, since I've heard the sounds of the city. In the house you never feel the day go by, never really seem to notice the daylight change to darkness. My feet no longer really feel the worn carpet on the floor. And the house is always so silent, so quiet that it's deafening. Oh, normally I would have been delighted to be outside. But I am not. If I have already begun to remember what happiness is, today has erased all improvement._

_Today we buried the Creevey brothers._

_There had been an ambush at their house. Death Eaters. They had gone down fighting, had even taken a few of their assailants with them. They were so brave, but so young. Their mother sat next to the coffins, staring straight ahead. Their father stood behind her, weeping quietly. I almost laughed at the reversal of archetypal roles. It was the closest I've come to humor in ages._

_The funeral was short, since there were still dangers, risks to being outside. Harry, especially, though we had him concealed beneath the cloak for protection. The rest of us had our identities out in the open, however, and I doubt any of us was at ease with that. Our eyes were always moving, watching, wary to anything suspicious. We didn't say anything when we left the house, but we all thought it. We could be attacked. Quite a few Death Eaters had managed to escape after Dennis and Colin had died. They could show up again._

_It was Luna who told us all of this, shaking on the couch in the living room, her hands clenched around her cup of tea. Luna. She sat next to me at the funeral, her normally wide and happy eyes lowered and empty. She was so brave today. She wouldn't cry, wouldn't show signs of weakness. I knew she was trying to be strong for Dennis and Colin, and also for the sacrifice that had been made the night they had died._

_Tomorrow we bury Neville._

_He had rushed to their aid. They lived in the same area, and leaving Luna, who'd been asleep, hurried to their house. Luna had woken up to the sound of the front door closing, and, glancing out the window, had seen the lights of magical battle. She'd quickly followed him, guessing at the location of the fight. She'd arrived on the scene soon after Neville, just in time to see him fall to a Killing Curse. Dennis was still alive then, and had shot a Killing Curse in return that found its mark, only to be shot down by a Death Eater behind him. Having accomplished what they came for, the remaining Death Eaters left. Luna came straight here. After she'd told us everything, we all just sat there in stunned silence. Harry was the first to react. He took Charlie and Draco (who'd been visiting) to the Creeveys' house and retrieved their bodies. Luna had simply sat there, waiting. The memory of her lifeless eyes has haunted me in my sleep for the past two days. Luna, who'd always been so happily nonsensical, so honest and so full of life, was suddenly so… empty. It was a painful sight._

_Draco stood on my other side, at the funeral. I was grateful for his presence; he seemed to prop me up just by being there. Though he did not really know the Creevey brothers, even when he was already on our side, his support meant a lot. When the time came to lower the coffins into the earth, he'd gripped my hand, tightly. There was warmth in his fingers, warmth I hadn't felt in so long, and my heart actually felt a little lighter. He promised he'd come to Neville's funeral. I hope he does. I don't know if I can go through it without him. I still can't believe Neville's dead. He was so brave, so strong, no longer the shy, bumbling boy I'd met on the train, searching for his toad. Luna couldn't find Trevor in the house. I remembered that during the funeral and nearly giggled hysterically. What a thought to have had, at a time like this._

_After the funeral, we returned home and made our way to our separate rooms. Or the others did. I went to the kitchen, made myself a cup of tea, for lack of anything better to do. I sipped it, sat at the counter, stared off into space. Suddenly a hand was on my shoulder and I nearly dropped my cup. I looked around and stormy gray eyes were looking down at me. Draco. He withdrew his hand and for some reason, my shoulder felt lacking from the loss of his touch._

"_Are you –I mean, will you be, er, all right?" His question caught me off guard, but his eyes relayed his concern. I actually smiled. It felt so weird, the smile. I haven't smiled in so long, it's like my lips have forgotten how to. The smile felt awkward and wrong and horrible and twisted –and absolutely wonderful. It was real. Draco Malfoy had actually made me smile._

_I think my smile may have worried him because the frown on his face deepened. I simply nodded, not wanting to ruin the smile on my face by opening my mouth. His hand hesitatingly made its way back to my shoulder and when our skin touched I felt relief. It was as if by taking away his hand he had taken something from me, and by putting it back he had completed me once again. I wonder why I felt this way –still do, even now. Why has our relationship changed so much in the past few months? Why is it that his touch can make me feel this way? For now, I can think of no other reason than my needing some form of comfort after witnessing so much death and destruction._

_I wonder how many funerals are yet to come, in this war that doesn't seem to have an end yet. How many deaths we'll have to witness, on our side, before we can finally put a stop to this madness. Who else will we have to bury along the road to justice? How many loved ones will we lose? The thought brings to mind gray eyes and awkward, stumbling words, and I hope with all my heart that that is one funeral I will never, ever attend._

**xxxxx**

Draco blinked, surprised to find tears in his eyes. He remembered that day well, the day of the Creevey brothers' funeral. He remembered not knowing why he'd decided to go, but going anyway. They had even let him sit near the front, next to Hermione. Though he hadn't looked at her the entire ceremony, he could feel the façade she'd put up. Her hands had been shaking from trying not to cry. They had been standing close enough for him to feel them lightly against his skin. Finally, unable to stand it, he'd taken her hand and the shaking had stopped. They had stood like that for the rest of the funeral, until the time came for them to return to Grimmauld Place.

He also remembered her smile. It had looked so strange –not like it was forced, but like her lips weren't sure how to form one anymore, and were trying to remember how to be. It had been lopsided and a little scary, but it had been a smile. Draco had been taken aback but happy, though he hadn't been able to smile himself.

His fireplace chimed and he looked up from the diary. "Who on earth could that be?" he wondered aloud. As he shifted on his bed, his foot touched the note from Harry and he remembered. He got up and grabbed a shirt from his closet. Pulling it over his head, he made his way downstairs. The fireplace chimed again. "I'm coming, no need to be impatient," he said, arriving at the shelf. The grinning face of Harry looked up at him. He tapped the figurine and Harry stepped onto the floor, dusting off soot.

"How're you doing, mate? Better?" Harry looked at Draco, his brow slightly furrowed.

"Fine now, thanks to you. You'll have to spot me some of that potion in the future." Draco laughed. "Tea?"

"You make it," Harry replied, hurrying to a nearby armchair before Draco could trick him into making his own tea again. Draco chuckled and made his way to the kitchen. "As for the potion, you can buy it in Diagon Alley. It's a simple headache cure, modified to treat ones caused by alcohol."

"I'll pick some up next time I'm there then," said Draco, coming back with two steaming cups of tea. For a moment they simply sat there, enjoying the warmth of the drink. Draco studied Harry's hands, particularly the left one. A simple gold wedding band sat on his left ring finger. Harry had finally married Ginny sometime after defeating Voldemort, to everyone's relief. Hermione had voiced her concern to him once, about how she was worried Harry would never propose to Ginny. The Prophet had been all over the wedding, even slipping in comments about the "hopes of society that another wedding will take place soon, between a certain blonde Ministry law enforcer and a good friend of Harry Potter's." Of course, to the delight of many a gossip in the wizarding world, he and Hermione had married a year after Harry and Ginny. Draco smiled sadly at the memory. It had unnerved him, how the wizarding world had accepted his role in the downfall of Voldemort so smoothly. Not to say there weren't protests, but Harry's testimony about Draco's help had quelled any of them.

"Have you found anything yet?" Harry's voice was so quiet that Draco almost didn't catch his question. He looked up, breaking from his thoughts. For a moment he couldn't comprehend Harry's question. _I hope you find what we're looking for. _Draco blinked, remembering.

"No, not yet." He looked at his tea, the brown liquid reflecting his frown. "But I haven't read much, so I haven't been expecting anything."

"Is it really her diary?"

"Yes. She started it after… after we retreated from Hogwarts."

"Oh." The two lapsed into silence once again, and Draco could almost feel all the unasked questions in Harry's head. But he didn't want to share what he'd read in the diary, all the pain and sadness. It would only call up old memories he knew Harry wouldn't want to have at the moment. They stared at nothing in particular, each lost in their own thoughts. Draco wondered if he ought to visit Hermione soon. Christmas was in a few days, and she might like his company, if she were lucid enough to enjoy it.

"I think I'd better return to the office." Harry stood up, setting down his cup. "Thanks for the tea. I'm glad you're feeling better. Though," he said, turning to Draco with a serious expression on his face, "don't pull something like that again, mate. For a second I thought you'd died on the bar."

"It'll take more than tequila to kill me," Draco replied, a wry grin on his face. Harry laughed, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Well… just take care of yourself, all right?" Draco nodded in response, and with a wave, Harry stepped into the fireplace and vanished.

Draco returned upstairs, sat down on his bed. The diary lay there, red against white sheets, almost like a bloodstain. His fingers touched it lightly, feeling the smooth, worn cover. He wondered how many more entries he'd have to read, how much more pain he'd have to remember, before he found what they were looking for. If it was even here.

**xxxxx**

_A/N. So… is the romance too choppy? Was this new entry awkward? Do Harry and Draco seem gay when they talk? (HAHAHA not that I mind Drarry; just that in my heart, Draco ends up with no one but Hermione.) R&R, much appreciated!_


	7. Silver

_A/N. Thank you, thank you, thank you so much for all those wonderful reviews. There are 12 so far, but each one puts a smile on my face every time I read it. It makes me incredibly happy to know you guys are enjoying my story. I'll keep trying my best to make it good for all of my readers._

_A lot of you guys are requesting a chapter in Hermione's POV. I've thought it over already, and I know what I'm going to do. It might not be exactly what you asked for, but it fits into the storyline and I rather like what I've plotted out in my head. Of course, if it displeases you guys, you can always tell me. Constructive criticism is always welcome._

_Here's the next chapter! Enjoy. The request chapter is coming up in a bit._

**xxxxx**

Draco pored over the diary entries throughout the rest of the day. He read them slowly; savoring each word, each space, because embedded in the ink was the heart of the woman he had loved for almost all his life. They had both been so naïve at Hogwarts, not realizing how they had come to respect each other through schoolyard animosity. They had been equals in their year as well as rivals, through an unspoken competition that had taken commenced from the day she'd punched him in the face. They'd continually try to best each other; Draco always having the upper hand in Potions and Dark Arts, Hermione holding the honors in the rest. He chuckled at how stubborn they'd been, both of them, clinging on to hatred. Not realizing that they'd slowly learned to respect each other, then care, then fall in love.

Love. Draco glanced down at the thin, golden band on his left ring finger. He had never taken it off, not even in the shower. Hermione had always laughed at his strict standards when it came to relationships, but Draco had been raised in elite wizard circles, and the way he acted was simply born from what he'd been told. Opening doors for her, pulling back her chair, holding her hand as she left the car, never taking off his ring –that was how he'd been taught to treat the person he loved. She had laughed and called him old-fashioned, but had loved him for it anyway. She had loved everything about him.

_No, not loved. Love. She still loves me, _he thought. _In present tense. _But for some reason, no matter how many times he told himself that, he could never quite completely believe it. Harry had told him that his newfound mistrust of Hermione was understandable, since half the time she still thought they were in school, or didn't even recognize him at all. But it killed Draco inside, the way he sometimes felt repulsed by her madness, how reluctant he'd become to visit her. Incurably insane or not, she was his wife, his Hermione. He loved her. _I love her. _His hand clenched, the wedding ring standing out against the white of his skin.

He quickly turned his attention back to the diary, shifting his thoughts from ones that made his heart feel constricted with self-hatred. There had to be some clue in here somewhere, something to bring Hermione back to him. Desperately he searched the words, hoping for some mention of why she'd left. But every page only held pain from the war. _Death. Destruction. Silence. Loneliness. _Draco almost threw the diary away. He knew that he was being irrational, but he couldn't help feeling angry toward Hermione. Not the one lying in the hospital bed, but the one who had written this, who had been perfectly sane, who had left him without a word and come back not herself.

But just as he'd savagely flipped to another page, a word caught his eye. _Home. _It stood out among the other words he'd read, words of pain. He flipped back to the start of the entry, skimmed over it, his breath catching as he realized what day it spoke of. The dying sunlight glinted on his wedding ring as he gripped the diary tighter and read.

**xxxxx**

_Today we were awoken very early in the morning by a hammering on the door. Or, the rest of the house was. I was awake, having been unable to sleep these past few weeks. I'm always haunted by the same nightmare._

_We're running through a small patch of forest. Harry's ahead, holding his wand aloft, his face taut with fear and anger and desperation. Ginny's beside me, determinedly not looking at me. Fred and George are behind me, and Bill's bringing up the rear. So far, no one's told me where we are or why we're here. We're all just running._

_Suddenly, Harry brings us to a halt. Through the trees we spot a clearing of sorts. There are people gathered in it, wearing dark robes and masks. Death Eaters. Silently, we cast a Disillusionment charm on ourselves. It's crude, but in the darkness, it'll be enough. We creep up to the clearing, peer through the trees._

_Lucius Malfoy stands closest to the center of the clearing, standing before a prone figure on the ground. I can't see very clearly, but the hair seems to be brown, or else a very dirty blonde. The figure isn't moving. Lucius is making a speech about the fate that awaits Mudbloods and anyone who sides with them. I can't see the faces of our group, but I can feel the tension. Somehow, I realize this is why we're here._

_Lucius lowers his wand and points it at the figure, which begins to scream and writhe on the ground. I almost cry out then, but a hand encircles my wrist, and I feel the familiar charm bracelet of Ginny, and I somehow manage to keep silent. The Death Eaters laugh and some point their wands at the figure and the screaming gets higher. The voice sounds unbearably familiar. Gray, something to do with gray. In my fear I can't seem to remember._

_Something next to me shifts and the leaves crackle and immediately, every Death Eater turns to look in our direction. I can't stifle a sharp intake of breath, and all their wands are now trained on us. Ginny's arm tightens around my wrist. I crane my neck, try to get a look at who they've been torturing, but they're slowly advancing now, wands at ready, so I can't see. I hear Harry's voice, so quiet that if I hadn't been waiting for it I would never have heard it. He's commanding an attack. My hand shakes as I reach into my pocket for my own wand. I didn't expect this._

_A Stunning Spell shoots through the trees and catches Lucius Malfoy right in the chest. He slumps over, and the Death Eaters abandon their caution and shoot spells into the trees. A jet of green light narrowly misses me and for a moment I'm frozen in fear. Then I hear a low moan, in that familiar voice again, and I run into the clearing._

_Several Death Eaters are already down. Our Disillusionment Charms have provided some advantage, though they can probably still see our outlines in the light. A few flee through the trees, and the remaining two stand their ground, back to back. Suddenly, one of them freezes and topples over. A Full Body Bind. The other one looks around, dropping his hand slightly. None of us attack. They're probably all doing what I am –watching him carefully. He backs up, his wand getting lower, and the backs of his heels touch the figure on the ground. The mask on his face covers his eyes but we all see the savage grin that breaks out on his face and a jet of green light erupts from the end of his wand and Harry's yelling and another jet of green light comes out of nowhere and the Death Eater is falling, the smile still on his face, and I'm racing toward the figure on the ground, desperate to see its face-_

_-and gray eyes stare lifelessly up at me. Stormy gray eyes._

_I collapse on his chest, sobbing, forgetting everything._

_Draco._

_Someone was calling his name downstairs. I left the room and hurried down to the living room and my heart nearly gave out right there and then. It was as if my nightmare had come true. Draco was lying on the couch, completely motionless, Bill sitting on the low coffee table across him, a nasty scar on his arm. My eyes went from him to Draco to him to Draco. My breath caught in my chest. I couldn't move. I couldn't bring myself to take another step. I couldn't bear to reach his side and find those gray eyes staring up at me, as lifeless as they had been in my dream. My heart felt like it was being ravaged and I couldn't breathe right and I realized that if Draco were to die, I would not be able to move on or keep living. I couldn't lose him. I love him. More than Harry, more than my family, more than Ron, even. After all this time, I know now. I love Draco._

_Ginny looked up from where she was, kneeling in front of the couch, holding cloth to Draco's arm. It was only then that I registered the countless scratches on his emaciated body, some still bleeding. There was one that looked really bad, running from his forehead to his jaw line, down the right side of his face. Wordlessly, Ginny stood, one hand still pressing the cloth down, and gave me a tiny nod. My mind was still unable to comprehend what was happening, but my feet moved robotically toward the couch. I knelt where Ginny had been; put my hands on the cloth, pressed down. I could feel the warmth of his blood through the cloth. From where I was, I could see his chest move, almost imperceptively. (*) He was alive. I repeated that over and over in my head, like a mantra. Draco was alive. Is alive. Alive._

_Harry entered the living room carrying a small bottle. He uncorked it, and I recognized the scent of dittany. He uncorked it and made to pour it on Draco's wounds, but my arm moved of its own accord and stopped him. I took the bottle from him and applied it myself. Slowly, the scars began to heal. His skin knit itself together, blood congealed and dried and scabbed and flaked off. I watched the scar on his face close, heal, fade, leaving only the thinnest of white lines, like gossamer and spider web. The whole time, Bill was explaining what happened._

_He had heard a commotion outside the house he and Fleur stayed in. Getting up, he'd gone downstairs and peeked out the window. Flashes of light indicating magical combat were coming from just past the magical border of their house. Grabbing his wand, he went outside to check what was going on._

_It had been Draco. He'd been ambushed by Death Eaters and, not wanting to risk leading them to our location, had Apparated to the next safe place he could think of –Bill's house. But the Death Eaters had managed to follow him somehow, and weak from their initial attack, he'd been cornered, already badly wounded by the time Bill got to them. Since he'd safe inside the magical borders they couldn't hex him much, but rather than risk being hit by a Killing Curse, Bill had stunned the lot, bound them together, and left them with Fleur and Charlie to take to the Ministry. As soon as he'd told them what to do, he'd taken Draco and brought him here._

_We were all listening like we were in some horrible trance. I didn't even notice I was crying until a hand gently reached up and brushed a tear from my cheek. Startled, I jerked around and saw that Draco had awoken. He tried to smile at me but it didn't come out quite right –it looked more like a grimace. My heart broke at the sight of him –wounds still healing, bruises still fading, hair a mess and blood covering his clothes, but still trying to smile. He was trying so hard to be strong. Everything came crashing down on me: the pain in my heart, the warmth of his blood on my fingers, the knowledge that he'd been so close to death. His silvery eyes stared up at me; eyes like a Pensieve, clouded with pain. Suddenly, without even thinking, with only wild abandon in my heart, I leaned over and kissed him. His lips were dry and tasted salty and metallic and for a moment, I had this irrational, laughable fear that he would crumble to dust and die beneath my kiss._

"_Stay here," I said, drawing away. He only nodded, but the faint glimmers of happiness were in his eyes. For the first time in months, Grimmauld Place felt a little bit closer to home._

**xxxxx**

Draco unconsciously lifted a hand to the side of his face. The scar was still there, the faintest of whites, a thin line running down from temple to jaw. Hardly anyone noticed it, especially nowadays since he was always so pale. Hermione had theorized it had been made by a dark curse, but a mild one. Scars like those never fully heal. Most of the time he never really thought about it, sometimes even forgot it was there. But during heated nights with Hermione she would always kiss the scar, reminding him she loved every part of him, even the flaws, and he would remember.

He turned his thoughts back to the entry. So that had been when she'd realized to whom her heart had belonged. Draco had always wondered. She never answered him when he'd ask her when she'd fallen in love with him. She'd always say something different, or else dodge the question. Eventually he'd given up asking, but his curiosity had never really died. And now he knew.

He closed the diary, set it to his bedside table, curled up and put his head to his knees. Everything suddenly felt so heavy, so painful, so suffocating. He remembered that night clearly: the ambush, the desperate Apparition, the fight that ensued after. He'd nearly passed out from the pain of his wounds. Then Bill had shown up and everything had gone blank. The next thing he knew, he was waking up to Hermione's tear-streaked face.

He thought back to that morning, lying on the couch, makeshift bandages pressed to his wounds. He thought about Hermione now, lying on a hospital bed, half the time delirious. A sob hitched in his throat, but no tears came out. His eyes were painfully, painfully dry. He looked at the pages he'd just read and wondered for the hundredth time if he would ever find anything in those pages-

-when something clicked into his head.

_Eyes like a Pensieve._

He leaped out of bed, raced toward the fireplace. He needed to speak to Harry.

**xxxxx**

_A/N. You guys can probably guess where this is going to go. I didn't want to do a Hermione POV chapter because it would seem so random and it wouldn't really fit, but then I thought of this and bingo! Compromise. I'll try to update soon so you guys can see… whatever it is Draco and Harry will see._

_Was this chapter okay? Was Hermione's realization too sudden and weird? Did the whole Pensieve thing seem forced? Did the plot suddenly suck? Do you hate me now? (Please no. Haha.) R&R, please and thank you!_


	8. Hope

_A/N. It seems a lot of you guys were confused by the last part in the previous chapter, with regard to Draco's realization. I'll try to clear that up in this chapter, and hopefully you guys understand what's happening. If after this, you still don't, feel free to tell me through reviews and I'll make changes as necessary. Once again, thank you to everyone who's reviewed me. Your compliments and critiques are much appreciated._

_On to the chapter!_

**xxxxx**

"Harry! Harry!" Draco hammered on the door to Harry's office in the Auror department at the Ministry. Office hours were ending, but Draco was familiar with Harry's workaholic nature. If Draco had to find him, this was the first place he would check. "I know you're in there, Potter. Open the damn door, I've got something to tell you!"

"Something wrong, Mr. Malfoy?" asked a young Auror, entering the office.

"Nothing, Fletcher. I just need a word with your boss." Draco banged a few more times. "Open up, you bloody prat!"

Draco made to bang on the door again, but it opened suddenly and he stumbled inside, crashing into someone. He looked up into the face of Kingsley Shacklebot, who raised his eyebrows. "Good afternoon, Mr. Malfoy. Is there a problem?"

Draco straightened, feeling quite flustered. "My apologies, Minister," he muttered, looking at the floor.

"It's quite all right," Kingsley said, his face impassive. "I, too, apologize for delaying your conversation with, er, this bloody prat." Draco looked up, sheepish, but saw the corners of Kingsley's mouth twitch. Behind him, Harry was looking rather shocked. "Good day, Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy." Kingsley nodded at both of them and left.

"It's about time, you bloody prat," Draco said, relief making him laugh. Harry himself was still getting over his alarm, but soon he was laughing as well.

"What's so important that you'd call me a bloody prat in front of the Minister?" Harry asked, gesturing to a seat across his desk. Draco closed the door behind him and took the seat.

"I'd call you a bloody prat in front of Shacklebot any day, really, even if you'd actually done something good," Draco replied, still laughing. But as he sat down, Hermione's diary shifted in his pocket and his mood immediately grew somber. He was here for her.

"Really, though, what's wrong, mate?" Harry took a seat at his desk. "I'd expected that you'd stay at home for the rest of the day. I was going to check on you again after my last meeting."

"I'm not invalid, Harry. I can take care of myself without you checking up on me," Draco said, the corners of his mouth creeping into a smile.

"I'm just saying-"

"I've found something." Draco blurted it out before his nerve could get the better of him. His hands clenched around his robes.

Harry was momentarily floored. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, his green eyes wide. "You've- you've _found _something?" he finally managed to choke out.

"Well, nothing specific." Draco brought out the diary. "But she's given me an idea."

"What idea?"

Draco flipped the diary open to the page he'd last read and slid it over to Harry. "She mentions how my eyes are similar to a Pensieve."

Harry skimmed the page, looked up at Draco. "And? Your eyes _are _gray-" He stopped, stared down at the page. "Eyes like a Pensieve," he whispered. "You don't think-?"

"It's worth a shot." Draco had a hard time keeping the desperation out of his voice. "If her memories haven't been tampered by whatever's caused her insanity…"

"…then we could get them from her and try to see what happened to her." Harry's voice was strangled. "It's a small chance-"

"But it's still a chance." Draco hadn't noticed he was standing. He slammed his fist down on Harry's desk. "Don't you want to find out what happened to her?"

"But what if her memories are damaged? There's no telling what's wrong with her mind-"

"But what if they're not?" Draco yelled. "What if they're fine, and they're just locked away somewhere where she can't always access them? It's worth a shot, I know it is, but if you don't want her to get better-"

"I never said that!" Harry bellowed. Both of them stood there, glaring at each other, breathing heavily. Draco was the first to break eye contact. He stared at the diary lying between them, its pages being ruffled by the magical breeze in Harry's climate-controlled office. "I never said that," Harry continued, quieter now. "We both care deeply for Hermione, you know that. I just-" He sat down heavily, letting out an exasperated sigh. "I don't want my hopes raised only to have them crushed."

At Harry's words, the hope in Draco's heart flickered, as if it were a candle instead of a beating muscle. He knew the feeling Harry was talking about. It had happened often enough to them, in the early months of Hermione's confinement, when every visit to St. Mungo's made their hearts beat wildly with hope, or when every Healer's owl made their hands shake. Their hopes would go up, thoughts of a miraculous cure on their minds, but she had never gotten better. Slowly, hope changed to desperation, then to denial, then muted and disappointed acceptance. They still hoped, but it grew fainter each day. It had been so long.

"It's still a chance," Draco said quietly, his eyes fixed on his knuckles, which were white against the dark of his hastily-worn robes. "It's small, but it's a chance. And right now I'm willing to take any chance that I can get."

There was a pause. Draco was unwilling to look up, afraid of what he might see on Harry's face. Resignation, anger, despair… His hands tightened around the cloth of his robes; he bit his lips to stop from screaming, if only to break the silence.

"I'll arrange for a Pensieve." The words were almost inaudible. Draco wouldn't have heard them if he hadn't been hoping for them so fervently. He looked up at Harry, who was staring at him with a strange emotion in his eyes. "Draco…"

"I'll wait at home." He stood and picked up the diary, not wanting to hear the rest of Harry's sentence. But before he could shut the door, the rest of Harry's sentence caught up with him, stabbing into him like an icy knife.

"I hope this works."

Draco ran out of the Auror department. He barreled through the corridors, took the stairs instead of the agonizingly slow lifts. He waited until he got to his private office and had locked the door behind him before he sank to the floor, his back against the door, and surrendered to the fear and anguish in his heart. He was absolutely terrified of the tiny hope in his heart, the faint light in his surrounding darkness. He was terrified that it wouldn't work; that her memories were messed up from whatever she'd gone through, that they'd try and end up with nothing. But more than that, he found that here, alone in his office, surrounded by things that had nothing to do with her, enveloped in the growing darkness, he was terrified of the fact that the idea, softly pulsing in his mind, would work.

**xxxxx**

_A/N. Short chapter is short, I know, but I felt like adding any more would be a little much. The chapter's rather crucial. I'll work in some Dramione into the next chapter or two, don't worry. Again, criticism will be much appreciated. R&R, please and thank you!_


	9. Frightening Thoughts

Draco spent the next few days working from home. His superior had been miffed, but Harry had spoken to him. Draco didn't know what Harry said, but it was enough to give him five days to work at home. He was grateful. At least at home, he could break down in peace.

He sorted through the files in front of him, sighing at all the work his superior, McFadden, had given him. Working in Magical Law Enforcement wasn't as exciting as most people thought it was. A lot of it was paperwork –long, tedious paperwork. They didn't go bursting into the homes of criminal wizards, making heroic arrests every other day. Most of the time they were in their offices filing.

He hadn't really wanted to become a Ministry wizard. Back in Hogwarts days, he'd considered playing Quidditch with Puddlemere United, but the war had changed all that. He'd joined the Magical Law Enforcement to show the magical community that he really was a changed man, to atone for the wrongs he and his family had done, and to bring would-be miscreants and criminals to justice. He'd originally tried to be an Auror but he didn't have the credentials. So he became a law enforcer. He subjected himself to mindless, tedious paperwork. He left his broom unused in the trunk in his room, the gleaming Firebolt engraving clouding over with dust.

He shifted a large pile of paper on the case against Bloddick Mandriger, a mildly insane criminal who jinxed Muggle dustbins to vomit up any trash placed in them when opened. He nearly dropped the stack when underneath he found Hermione's diary. He'd avoided thinking about it for the most part, not wanting to get his hopes up. Harry had said arranging for a Pensieve would take a while, Head of Auror office or no. Draco had made him promise to owl as soon as he got hold of one. Until then, they would both just have to wait, wearing out their nerves with their agitation.

He picked up the diary. It had been a while since he'd read any of the pages. The hope they'd found inside it had shaken both of them, and while part of Draco wanted to find out more, part of him was terrified at what he might read. Finally, reluctantly, he picked it up. The dark green ribbon was starting to fray from his fiddling. He opened it, found the most recent entry he'd read, moved on to the next ones. Deciding he needed a break from paperwork (and unwilling to return to the large stack of paperwork he had left to do), he began to read.

**xxxxx**

_It's been maybe a week since Draco showed up at Grimmauld Place, badly scarred and barely conscious. Since then, I haven't left his side. His wounds have mostly healed thanks to the dittany, but he drifts in and out of consciousness. Mrs. Weasely, who emerged from her room for the first time in ages to check on Draco, said it was most likely due to a combination of near-starvation, sleeplessness and fighting. Yesterday he had a fever and I couldn't tear myself away from his side. I ended up sleeping in the armchair next to his bed. Today I woke up to find Harry's old cloak around me and a fresh cup of tea waiting at the bedside table. I felt much lighter than I had since our search for Horcruxes._

_Draco's sleeping now. He looks so peaceful. It's a nice change from his usual self, who had eyes full of chaos and a furrow in his brow that seems so wrong for someone as young as he. He always looked so… dark, and pained. I can't count the number of times I've wished that I'd made him stay earlier. But then my heart reminds me that if I hadn't been about to lose him, I may never have realized how much he meant to me. Means, still._

_I wonder how he feels about me. I wonder how he felt about that kiss I gave him, out of relief from knowing he would live. I wonder about the intensity I saw in his gray eyes, after I'd pulled away from him, before unconsciousness claimed him. He's never fully conscious long enough for me to ask or talk to him. _

_I hope he wakes up soon. He needs food and a bath and fresher clothes. Seeing him so vulnerable on the bed makes me want to mother him, so much. Bill guessed he's just been living on his own, somewhere out in those streets. Fending for himself. I'm simultaneously terrified and jealous. Part of me wishes to be out on the streets, making my own way in life. I think all of us in this house now understand how Sirius felt, all those months in our fifth year, cooped up in this old house. Captivity doesn't seem like a fair price for safety. I can feel the recklessness building inside me. Oh, I do hope we can come up with a plan before I do something regrettably rash._

_The only problem is, with Draco here, we've lost our constant link to the outside world. Bill, Fleur and Charlie don't drop in often enough to keep us updated with Death Eater activities. I should speak to Harry soon; see if we can't work something out. It's been months; we've had more than enough time to grieve. I want to be able to do something already. I want to be able to avenge the wrongs that have been done –to the magical community, to Muggles and to us. I think of everything that's been lost –our homes, our friends, our school. I think of Ron, Tonks, Lupin, Sirius, my parents. I think of Draco, lying on the bed nearby, still unconscious. I feel weird. It's like something's building up inside me, like there's this itch that I can't quite scratch. It's hot and it's chafing and it makes me clench my fists and want to hex something. And that's when I realize._

_I'm angry. For once, since the battle at Hogwarts, I'm feeling something that's not despair or desperation. I am actually angry._

**xxxxx**

The entry ended rather abruptly. Draco frowned down at the page. Obviously he barely remembered anything of that time, having been barely conscious for the most part. He thought back to those days after he'd shown up, scarred and weak. He remembered flashes of things –a cool hand on his cheek, a wet cloth on his forehead, incoherent voices, shivers caused by his fever. They were all hazy; they'd happened so long ago.

He looked down, saw that she'd started a new entry a few lines below the last one. He squinted at it. It was written in different ink, but it seemed to be from the same day. Before continuing his invasion of Hermione's privacy, he got up and made himself a cup of tea.

While waiting for the kettle to whistle (he could have easily heated the water by magic but he rather enjoyed waiting for that high-pitched noise –he found it quaint and pleasant), he sat on a kitchen stool, stared through the archway at the diary. It looked so innocent. It did not look like it held such immeasurable pain and hope.

Staring intently at the diary, Draco wondered if the idea he'd had would work. He could feel the turmoil inside of him growing. He didn't know if he was more terrified of the fact that it wouldn't work –or the fact that it would. He wanted Hermione back so badly, but how would they both deal with two years of lost time? What if they made her sane but she forgot everything? And what would they see in her memories? What had happened to her to make her lose her mind?

The kettle began whistling, drawing Draco from his frightening thoughts. Seeking relief, he quickly made a cup of tea, wrapping his hands around the cup to warm them, to dispel the chill creeping into his soul. He sipped the tea, relieved as the warmth spread through his body. Walking back to the living room, to the diary, he sat down, trying to ignore the small question pulsing at the back of his mind. He tried to push it to the furthest corners of his mind, tried to bury it beneath other thoughts, but it was stubborn. It murmured itself to Draco as he opened the diary to resume his reading.

_Do I really want her to get better?_

**xxxxx**

_Draco woke up. Not the hazy, almost-consciousness he's come to the past few days; he was completely awake and aware of his surroundings. The first thing he said was my name. I was reading a book in the corner, trying to calm down, since I didn't want to talk to Harry all riled up. Riled up. I laughed at that. Draco said those words to me, so long ago, on the way to the Great Hall._

_At the sound of his voice, I immediately stood up, my heart pounding. The fears I'd had for the first few days of his semi-consciousness resurfaced. What if he didn't remember the kiss? What if he did, but didn't feel the same way? What if he wanted to leave now, go back to wherever he's been staying, not wanting to be cooped up in this house, like the rest of us?_

_The fears disappeared, though, when he opened his eyes and focused on me, and repeated my name. All the anxiety and panic and sadness I'd had to go through this past week rose up and I ran to him and threw myself down on him and sobbed. "Don't leave," I said. I think I overwhelmed him with the intensity of my actions because for a while he just lay there, probably in shock. But soon an arm wrapped around me hesitantly, and a soothing voice said, "I won't."_

_I went to tell Molly that he was awake, after that. He was hungry, which was a good thing. Molly actually went down and cooked a meal for the first time in months. It was just some soup and roast beef, but it was heaven in our mouths after the snatches of meals we'd eat, or after tasting Harry's and Ginny's cooking (they stopped after a few weeks since Fred kept vomiting). She even ate with us. We sat in silence, chewing our food. I had to help Draco eat since his arms weren't so steady. He'd laugh the first few times I'd spoon soup into his mouth, and the sound was music to our happiness-deprived ears. Molly left the room after a short time; I think she was starting to cry. Laughter isn't something we've heard in this house for months. It was strange, but not unpleasant. Oh, I'm so glad Draco's here. Wait –that sounds wrong. I'm not happy about the circumstances that landed him here, but I'm happy that he's here. Maybe he'll find a way to lighten this funeral-like atmosphere, even just a little. If he doesn't become as hollow as the rest of us by staying here._

_After we'd finished eating, and after I'd cleared away our plates, I sat by Draco's bed. It was strange to see him just lying there, unable to do much. The Draco I knew was either arrogant and scathing, or sullen and silent. In the early post-war days he was brooding, hesitant, or brusque. But I've never seen him weak. Not until now. Hesitantly, I reached over and laid a hand over mine. He didn't move, just looked at our hands. We sat in silence until he drifted off into sleep._

_I would give the world right now to know what he was thinking then. How he felt. This isn't like Ron. This isn't an awkward, fragile love born from chaotic circumstances; this isn't me confusing friendship with love. This isn't like Krum either, with my naïve schoolgirl crush on a famous Quidditch player. This is… I don't know what this is. I don't understand what I'm feeling. How can I love him after only so short a time? Why am I so scared that I'll come up to this room and find he's stopped breathing? How can someone mean so much to you when for 7 years of your life they did nothing but cause you pain and misery, when you barely know anything about them?_

_Merlin, Draco, what are you doing to me?_

**xxxxx**

Draco stopped reading, the thudding in his chest increasing. _What are you doing to me? _He'd thought that about her, so long ago, when he'd been falling for her. He closed the diary abruptly, his head dropping to his hands. Reading her entries was starting to cause him pain, especially knowing that half the time, she didn't remember any of this. Briefly he wondered if maybe he could give this back to Hermione, so she could read it and remember. His fingers tightened around the little book, his heart already against the very thought of it. He didn't want to give up his one link to the Hermione he loved, and he didn't want to risk her damaging it or herself. _Better to keep it with me,_ he rationalized. He looked back down at the diary.

_Do I really want her to get better?_

The thought of him giving her the diary brought that question to the front of his mind again. Angrily, he tossed aside the diary and lay down on the couch, pressing a cushion to his head. He hated that question. He hated it for popping up now, when they'd found some hope. And he hated himself for thinking it in the first place. But most of all, he hated the fact that, despite everything he'd gone through for her, every day he'd waited in hopes of a cure, he did not have an answer.

**xxxxx**

_A/N. So… is this chapter any good? Is the line of thought Draco's taking plausible, and for that matter, likeable? Did I just ruin the story forever? Seriously, you guys can tell me if the story's starting to suck. Especially with regard to the memories. Is the romance in them moving too fast?_

_Sorry for the delay in updating, btw. School's finally kicking in, and Physics is taking up most of my attention right now. I'll try to update at least once a week._

_Again, reviews and constructive criticism, much appreciated, please and thank you!_


	10. Imagination, Memory and Reality

_A/N. Thanks for everyone who reviewed! You guys know how to make a writer feel loved. Hope I never disappoint. Sorry for the long wait for this chapter. I haven't felt inspired lately, though I've managed to update my other story. Hope you guys are still reading!_

_Chapter time!_

**xxxxx**

The next morning, Draco woke up with a splitting headache, having stayed up late into the night, filing and filling out forms. Nights like these made him feel more like a clerk than a hot-shot Ministry Law Enforcer. He rubbed his forehead, rummaged through the medicine cabinet for the right potion, downed it, and sat down on the toilet to wait for it to take effect. He closed his eyes, wincing at the surge of pain as the magic worked its way into his system, then felt the immediate relief. Standing up, he looked at himself in the mirror. The scar on his face was white on white against his skin, the circles around his eyes standing out. He was starting to resemble a panda. He slapped at his cheeks, trying to return some color to them. Not much luck. He stumbled into the living room, caught sight of the Daily Prophet. Saw an advertisement. Alcohol. Alcohol would set him straight.

Along with informing Draco that his superior had allowed him a few days to work at home, Harry had made Draco promise that he wouldn't touch anything alcoholic without someone else around. Personally, Draco felt like a little kid being told that he couldn't go outside without a responsible adult. He'd promptly informed Harry that he was perfectly capable of caring for himself. And now he'd show Harry. He'd go out to the pub and get a few drinks, just enough to drive away the cold and put some color on him, and come home just fine.

He wrapped up warm and, after a split second's hesitation, tucked the diary into the inner pocket of his coat. When he stepped out, he was greeted by snow and Christmas carols. The high, clear notes filled the air and whirled around Draco, cutting into his bones. The words were familiar, but they alienated him; they spoke of hope while in his heart he feared it. From the steps of his apartment building he watched the kids, bundled up against the cold, singing to the house a few lots down. The wind blew flurries and voices around him, and Draco found himself transported to his first Christmas with Hermione, all those years ago.

**xxxxx**

_He stepped through the front door hesitantly. It was Christmas Day, but the house didn't seem very festive. Actually, that was an understatement. It was more cheerful at the morgue he'd passed by on his way here. The house was completely silent, with a stale atmosphere. It had been a few months since the end of the war, but it seems no one was healed enough to try and bring Christmas to Grimmauld Place._

_He set down the packages he'd brought on the couch in the living room, and noticed it was cleaner. He blinked, looked around. The layer of dust that normally covered the house was gone. Even the glass on the photographs on the walls was gleaming. Maybe the tenants of this house weren't so dead after all._

"_Draco?"_

_He whirled around at her voice. She was standing there, in the doorway to the kitchen, pale, her hair the shortest it had been in her entire life. She'd cut it some weeks back, in a fit of anger and depression, sobbing all the while at how useless everything was, especially her. It suited her, though, in a wild sort of way. It gave her an edge her normally long, bushy hair had not. At the sight of him, various expressions crossed her face –relief, anger, happiness, pain. He held out his arms, tentatively, and she ran to him, but not to hug him._

'_You – stupid – arse – Draco – Malfoy!" She punctuated every word with a blow, while he flung up his arms in defense, completely taken aback. "Why – did – you – leave – without – any – goodbye? Oh, don't you know what you put me through?" She kicked him in the shin and he staggered backward._

"_What?" he asked, confused, peeking out from behind his arms. Her onslaught seemed to have finished and she collapsed in a nearby chair, panting. He heard a chuckle and looked up to see Ginny standing in the doorway. She winked and disappeared into the kitchen. Draco was relieved to see that wink. Things were lightening up in this house after all._

"_You left!" Hermione's hysterical voice and her punch to his gut broke through his thoughts. She stood up and slapped him. "You left and you didn't tell anyone. You didn't even leave a note! Merlin, you were gone for two days, I was going out of my mind! Anything could have happened to you. I thought you were dead, I thought the Death Eaters had gotten you, I thought I'd lost you, I thought-" She broke off as Draco kissed her, hard, drawing her to him. She struggled at first, trying to push him away to berate him further, but Draco was still stronger even after weeks of being emaciated, living on the streets, and eventually, she gave up. Their kiss deepened; he pushed her against the wall, her hands winding through his hair. A cough from behind them made them jump apart._

"_Ah, young love." It was Harry. He was grinning, a welcome expression on his face. Just last week Ginny was complaining that Harry's frown might be a now-permanent feature on his face. Ever since Draco had come to stay here the atmosphere had lightened up somewhat, though the happy moments were fleeting. A small joke here, an attempt at cleaning there, but it was improvement._

"_What got into you?" Draco asked, wrapping an arm around Hermione's waist as she buried her head into his shoulder, embarrassed._

"_Molly's been cleaning and forcing us to help. She's determined we're to have a proper Christmas, no matter the situation." Harry's face darkened somewhat and Draco could read between his words. This Christmas was honoring the dead as well as the living._

"_You still haven't answered my question, Draco," Hermione snapped from where she was leaning against the wall. Draco could hear the smile she was hiding, though._

"_You'll see later," he said, waving his wand behind his back to camouflage the presents on the couch, grateful they had gone unnoticed in the ruckus. He wanted them to be a surprise._

"_The happiness is actually a little infectious, even if it _is _thin," Harry went on, entering the kitchen. "She's got most of us out of our rooms, at least."_

"_Most?" Draco asked, following him into the kitchen, where Ginny was arranging cookie dough on a tray. One of the ovens was lit, and inside Draco could see the chicken he'd bought a few days ago. It was thin, but it seems not even scant meat could deter Molly Weasely from making a "proper" Christmas dinner. He doubted there was much that could._

"_Fred and George won't come out of their rooms yet. Neither will Luna," Ginny replied as she spooned out dough. Her face was impassive but her voice shook a little. Draco lifted a hand to comfort her, but Harry was already there, his arm around her shoulder. Draco awkwardly ran the raised hand through his hair instead._

"_Ah." He couldn't bring himself to reply any further. Leaving Harry and Ginny to the cooking (which he hoped wouldn't taste as bad as the previous times they'd tried), he found Hermione sitting in the chair outside, wiping tears from your eyes. He knelt before her, cupped her cheek, brushed a few away. "What's wrong?"_

"_Don't you ever do that to me again," she whispered, and in her voice and her eyes Draco could sense the agony she'd been through the past two days –the anxiety, fear, anger, loneliness. The tears she'd shed, waiting for him to come home, wondering if he would. He kissed her gently, her lips, cheeks, forehead, fingers._

"_Never." He met her gaze and could tell he was forgiven._

"_Oh, Draco, where have you been? You've had all of us worried sick over you, going off without so much as a note." Mrs. Weasely bustled into the little living room, waving her hands. Draco chuckled; she very much resembled a mother hen. "Goodness, all the cooking and cleaning I've done has worn me right out." Before he could warn her, she sat down on the couch, but stood right back up. "What on earth-?"_

_Draco grinned, and waved his wand. "Presents."_

**xxxxx**

"Hey mister, want to hear a carol?"

A small blonde boy looked up at him eagerly, the rest of the carolers waiting eagerly behind him. Draco shook his head to clear it, and smiled down at the boy. Looking down into his pale eyes, Draco was reminded of himself. "Maybe next time, little man," he said, and ruffled the boy's hair. Smiling and nodding to the other carolers, who all wished him a Merry Christmas, he made his way down the road, but not to the pub. He ducked into a side alley and after making sure the coast was clear, he Apparated.

Reappearing in another side street across London, Draco stamped his boots to clear off the snow and made his way to the main avenue. The road of St. Mungo's was crowded as usual, with Muggles as well as wizards involved in the usual holiday accidents. He walked over to the disguised location, knocked, waited for the signal, and entered. He pushed his way through the crowded lobby, toward the less crowded stairs. When he got to the fourth floor, he didn't hesitate, but simply made his way to the ward. The Healer greeted him as he came through the door.

"Ah, Mr. Malfoy! Welcome," she smiled, looking up from her paperwork. "Unfortunately, your wife is asleep as of the moment. Perhaps you'd like to wait in the tea shop until she wakes up?"

"That's all right. I'll wait in her room." He gave her a tight smile.

"Very well. Happy holidays, sir." She smiled and turned back to her papers.

"Happy holidays," he replied, and made his way to that room at the end.

She was indeed asleep when he entered, and so he closed the door carefully so as not to interrupt her peaceful state. He walked over to her, quietly, stood over her. Her breathing was easy, her face calm, her lips turned up in a half smile. The locket he'd said was from Ron was around her neck. He traced the heart with his fingers, then her cheek, her jaw line, and his own heart broke. Another lonely Christmas, then, spent having a few beers down at the pub, stopping by Grimmauld Place for some well-wishing and an invitation to dinner that he would decline, then back home to watch reruns on television and to try and ignore the gnawing pain and loneliness. Another Christmas without her laughter, without her trying to convince him not to rip the wrapper, without her cooking (she'd improved over the years), without her warm body snuggled up to him on the couch as they drank their hot chocolate. Another Christmas alone.

He sank down next to her bed, one hand gripping her sheets, another clutching at his chest as the tears began to form. Merlin, he missed her. He missed her so much. Some nights it was hard to bear, seeing the empty space next to him in bed that once was filled by her soft, warm body. The apartment lacked her essence. He could feel it every time he entered, like an invisible void. He needed her back in his life. He needed her with him. He needed her. He loved her. Oh, Merlin, how he loved her.

Finally, he quieted, the last of his tears running down the scar on his face. He sat there for a long moment, in the quiet of her hospital room. Then he lifted himself up, looked at her. Pushed her gently to the side. Slipped off his shoes. Lay down next to her. Wrapped his arm around her waist, buried his face in her sweet-smelling hair, and pretended, as he had on so many nights, that she was whole and happy, that she, too, was moving closer to him. And like in his imagination, his dreams, and his reality, she was still, unmoving, not knowing that the man she loved with all her heart was crying quietly against her skin, ready to give anything at all to have her back.

**xxxxx**

_A/N. Again, I am so, so sorry for making you guys wait so long. Was this worth it?_


	11. Decisions and Longing

_A/N Hello readers! A thousand apologies for not updating this story sooner; I've temporarily run out of inspiration for it. I'm telling you guys now that updates to this story will be somewhat infrequent, especially since I'm a little preoccupied with one of my other stories, Renegade. I hope this doesn't make you hate me, and that you continue to read this story. (I will cry otherwise.) So please forgive the hiatus…es this story takes! Please? *offers cookies*_

_Here is the next chapter! I will reiterate –there will be NO chapter from Hermione's POV. That would just be too random and weird._

**xxxxx**

"Draco?"

Something nudged Draco. He could feel it in his state of semi-consciousness. He tried to open his eyes but couldn't; he was still sleepy. He couldn't remember where he was. The air smelled stale, like sickness, and he was wrapped around something warm and soft. He shifted his head, and came into contact with something that smelled faintly, so faintly, of strawberries. Hermione.

The thought shocked him into consciousness. Could it be-? Was she-? He pushed himself up from the bed, examined her face, his heart racing. Hermione-? But she was still asleep, her face pale, the fingers of her left hand closed around the locket. Draco exhaled sharply, his eyes feeling very dry, and almost laughed. How could he have been so foolish as to think that her saying his name meant she'd remembered everything? Such silly thoughts.

"Draco."

Something nudged Draco on the shoulder once more and Draco looked up. Harry was standing beside the bed, consternation written all over his face. For a moment, an odd expression flashed in Harry's eyes –was it jealousy? Anger? Regret? But his face smoothed over. "Good news, mate."

Draco rubbed his eyes, sat down next to Hermione's sleeping form. "What?" he whispered, so as not to wake his wife.

Harry held up a letter and grinned. "I got one."

"Got what?" The letter looked suspiciously like the Hogwarts acceptance letter they'd received when they were eleven. Had Harry gone mad too?

"A Pensieve, you dolt." Harry lightly tapped Draco on the head with the rolled-up missive. "It's been approved. I'll have it in my office by tonight."

"Tonight?" Draco blinked, suddenly utterly confused. Tonight. They'd be able to delve into her memories tonight. The thought set his heart racing. No. He wasn't ready, not yet. It was too soon. And yet–! Hermione shifted on the bed, and her hand fell across Draco's, and the locket glinted in the morning sun. Draco gritted his teeth and stiffened his resolve. This was a chance. He had to know who'd done this to his wife. He would make them pay.

"Tonight." Harry's mouth was set in a grim smile. Then, seeing as Draco was still overwhelmed, he patted him on the shoulder. "Go home first and get dressed. Come to my office at 6 o'clock."

Draco nodded, then glanced down at Hermione. "Should we-?" he asked, gesturing at her forehead.

"I suppose we should." Harry brought out his wand, but Draco put out a hand to stop him.

"I'll do it," he said. Harry looked down at him for a long moment, then nodded once. He produced a small vial, handed it to Draco, and stepped back.

Draco looked down at his sleeping wife, and for a moment felt the urge to hurl the small glass vial in his palm, to break it, to leave this mystery unsolved. He'd been hoping all these long years for a cure, but now that the opportunity was staring him in the face, his mind was plagued with doubts. Did he really want to know what happened to her? Did he really want her to get better? After so many months of loneliness, of pain, of missing her more and more every day, was he ready to have her back in his life?

As if reading the traitorous thoughts in Draco's mind, Harry moved forward and laid a hand on Draco's shoulder. He did not speak, but he did not need to. Draco squared his shoulders and thought, _this isn't just about me. _Harry, Ginny, the twins, Luna –they were all hoping for Hermione's recovery. Slowly, he withdrew his wand from his pocket, touched it lightly to his wife's temple. Then with all the strength he had in his broken soul, he lifted the wand away.

A strand of a silvery substance –not quite liquid, not quite solid– came off with the wand, and Draco pulled at it gently until it broke off, and lowered it into the vial. Again and again, he repeated his actions, until the vial was full. The silvery stuff swirled around, almost like smoke. The vial felt so fragile in his hand; he felt that if he closed his hand around it tight enough, it would shatter and all the memories would turn to ash. Again, as if sensing his thoughts, Harry reached down, took the vial, and corked it. As the vial was sealed a soft sound escaped, almost like a whisper, though it might have been Draco's imagination. Against him, Hermione shifted again, and murmured something incoherent. He touched her hair, her cheek, and under their lids her eyes shifted. Draco froze, his fingers resting lightly on her jaw line. Her eyes fluttered open.

"Draco?"

Behind him, Draco sensed Harry had drawn his wand. Draco found himself unable to draw his hand away. His heart was racing. But she raised her hand to his, and entwined their fingers, and Draco almost collapsed with relief. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, ran his lips over her smooth skin, kissed every finger. She smiled and his heart warmed. He heard the door close, and realized Harry had left the room, presumably to give them some time alone. He sent a silent thank you to his friend.

"Hello," he whispered to Hermione, who smiled and raised herself, and pressed her lips to his. Hungry for the touch of her body, for the kisses he had gone so long without, he kissed her eagerly, ran his hands through her tangled hair, down the graceful curve of her back. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and his heart began to race. Merlin, how he'd missed this; holding her against him, her warm body pressed against his, her soft lips moving fervently on his. He could feel her smiling, could feel her hands exploring his hollow cheeks, his thin shoulders. He hadn't felt her touch in so long; it felt as though her fingers were burning him, trailing sparks as they moved over his body. It was electrifying and nostalgic and painful all at once, and Draco wished it would last forever.

But it could not. With a happy sigh, Hermione withdrew and smiled up at him, and the locket glinted and reminded Draco of what ought to be done. He reached up and brushed a few unruly strands of hair from her eyes. She caught his hand, held it to her cheek, and again Draco's heart melted and he wished more than anything that this was all happening in their room, back at the apartment, and that in a few moments they would cook dinner together and he could fall asleep with his arms around her. Merlin, how he wished it. He would give anything. But his wish was not for him to have, and so he cupped her cheek, kissed her forehead, and whispered "I'll be back." And he tried his hardest to ignore the regret, the anguish, and he stood up from the bed, withdrew his hand, walked away.

"I love you," she called, just before his hand reached the doorknob, and his heart broke and he gripped the doorknob tightly, almost wrenching it from the door, in order to restrain himself from going back to her side and never leaving. He had to do this. He had to found out what broke her.

"I love you, too," he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear. He did not look at her. He could not. Looking at her would shatter his already cracking resolve. "More than my own life." The words he'd used in his wedding vows. They were still true. With a heavy heart, he turned the doorknob. When the door clicked shut behind him, he sank to the floor.

After what felt like an eternity, Draco felt Harry place a hand on his shoulder. "Let's get you home." Slowly, feeling as if he were weighed down with boulders, Draco stood and followed Harry out of the ward. They were silent as they descended in the elevator, as they stepped into the fireplace, as they Flooed to his apartment. Harry said his goodbyes, but hesitated as he was about to leave. Finally, when Draco had the apartment all to himself, he sank down onto the couch and burst into tears, the memory of her kisses and her smiles all too clear in his mind.

**xxxxx**

He didn't remember falling asleep, but when Draco lifted his head from the couch, feeling rather groggy, it was a little past four in the afternoon. His stomach rumbled, and he got up and padded into the kitchen. The motions of cooking and the smell of basil pesto (he was a little too sleepy for anything more complicated than pasta) cleared his head a little, as did eating. He washed the dishes, and headed upstairs to bathe and change.

As he stood in the shower, the warm water beating down between his shoulder blades, he thought about what he and Harry were about to attempt. Would this even work? What if whatever it was that had driven her half-mad had also damaged her memories? And if ever they were clear, what would her memories show them? Would they be of any help? He felt it again, the doubt, the fear of what he might see. Did he really want to do this?

He stepped out of the shower, patted himself lazily with a towel, put on a dark gray button-down and some dark jeans. As he stepped into the living room, his gaze fell on Hermione's diary, lying on the floor. It appeared to have fallen out of his coat pocket. He picked it up, traced the worn binding. Yes, he decided, he did want to do this. For Hermione's sake, he would. She did not deserve to be locked up in that hospital ward, far from everything she loved. She was his wife. She should be with him.

With this newfound determination, he put on his coat, pocketed the diary, faced the fireplace. He grabbed a fistful of Floo powder, flung it into the flames, and said, loud and clear and determined, "Ministry of Magic!" And then he stepped into the fire and whirled out of sight.

**xxxxx**

_A/N Again, my apologies for the delay. I hope this chapter is worth it! Coming up is the chapter you've all been clamoring for –the chapter of the Pensieve. What will Harry and Draco see, and what will it lead them to? You'll see (hehe). I'll try to update soon!_


	12. Surprise

_A/N Hello readers! After an incredibly long hiatus, this story is finally getting updated! A thousand apologies, madames and monsieurs, for not putting up another chapter sooner, but I'd run out of inspiration for the story and just couldn't seem to be able to write for it. If you've hated me for updating my other fics but not this one, then I apologize. Have some Dramione cookies, on me._

_I sincerely hope this chapter is worth the wait. Feel free to inform me of your displeasure if it is otherwise. And feel free to browse my other fics as well, while waiting for the next chapters! My pet favorites are Not Like This, its sequel Renegade (and my other ongoing fic), and A Few of My Favorite Things._

_Anywhoozle. Shameless plugging is done. Chapter time!_

**xxxxx**

Draco's hand rested on the doorknob to Harry's office, but he couldn't bring himself to grasp and turn it, to open the door. He knew what awaited him on the other side –Harry, a Pensieve, and a vial full of his wife's memories, just waiting to be entered. But despite that knowledge, he couldn't find it in himself to enter the office. _Do I really want her to get better? _The question that had haunted him for days surfaced in his mind. Was he really ready for this?

Before he could decide, however, the door suddenly opened, and Harry stood before him, his green eyes alight with fear and determination. No words passed between them, just a single nod from Harry. Draco pursed his lips. No time for cowardice now. He stepped inside as Harry drew back and closed the door. It was now or never.

The Pensieve sat on Harry's table, throwing an odd, ethereal light around the room. It was made even more eerie by the fact that the office curtains were drawn, dimming the lights from the windows. Its contents glimmered, not quite liquid, not quite gas. The little vial stood next to it, so inconspicuous, and yet so significant. Draco picked it up. It felt fragile in his hands. Again, the urge to break it with his fingers overwhelmed him, and he set the vial down before he could act on it. The cacophony of worries reached its crescendo in his heart. What if the memories were damaged? What if they had been tampered with? What if they didn't show what they needed? And what if –what if they did?

"Draco?" It was the first word uttered by either of them since Draco had arrived. He looked up to find Harry watching him intently, his shoulders squared but his hands shaking. Draco only nodded and picked up the vial. Slowly, he uncorked it. The contents threw out the same ethereal light as the Pensieve in front of him. His hand moved forward, held the vial over the shimmering substance in the bowl. Hesitated. For a moment, he could not find the strength to tip the vial over, empty its contents. _Do I really want her to get better? Am I ready for this?_ Was he?

Something warm rested on his hand and he looked up to see Harry's impassive face. The frightened hope in Harry's eyes was all Draco needed to remind him of what was at stake. He nodded, and together, the two boys emptied the contents of Hermione's mind into the Pensieve. Without any hesitation, Harry leaned forward and disappeared into the bowl's contents, and after a heartbeat, Draco followed.

**xxxxx**

_They were inside her office. Draco recognized it immediately, and guessed Harry did too. She'd worked in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures for a few years before transferring to International Magical Cooperation. A small box of S.P.E.W. badges lay on her desk. Harry picked one up and chuckled. Draco rolled his eyes, remembering her avid promotion of her silly schoolgirl project._

_She was seated at her desk, shuffling through some papers. It was late at night, and she was obviously exhausted. She propped her head up for a bit, rubbed at her temples. The two boys sneaked a peek at her work. Goblin liaisons. No wonder she was tired._

_Suddenly, a tapping noise came from her office window. All three of them looked up, startled. An owl flapped feebly outside. She opened the window warily, but took the poor creature in gently. It hopped onto her desk and held out its leg dutifully, hooting once. She untied the note on its leg, and the little bird took off at once. She closed her window carefully before reading it._

_She unfolded it carefully, a frown creasing her brow, obviously wondering who would send her a note at this time. Upon reading the few words written, her face paled immediately. She stood up, stumbling back from her desk, her fingers struggling to take a proper hold of her wand. Draco and Harry started forward. She cast a hurried spell, which engulfed the little sheet of paper in flames, but not before the two had read what was written on it. There were only three words, written in jagged, hurried writing, but they shook both Draco and Harry to their cores-_

_Bellatrix is back._

The scene shifted, abruptly, for which Draco was relieved. Harry looked as utterly floored as he felt. All these years and neither of them had known- Bellatrix- had been alive? _Was _alive? But why? And more importantly, _how?_

_A clatter brought their attention to the memory. They were in Draco's apartment, but it was well past midnight according to the clock on the kitchen wall. Hermione was awake, nursing a cup of tea. She'd half-dropped it onto the table, which had made the noise. Draco guessed his memory self was upstairs, in bed, asleep. Despite the late hour, Hermione looked jittery, high-strung, her eyes wide, her hands shaking._

_"It can't mean anything," she whispered. "She can't be back."_

_Harry looked at Draco, who nodded. Hermione was talking about the note._

_"She's dead!" Hermione was muttering to herself almost hysterically now. "She's dead, I killed her." She ran her hands through her hair, her breathing ragged. Her motions upset her cup of tea, which spilled all over the table with a small clatter._

_"But oh god, the nightmares–" she cut off abruptly, clapping her hand to her mouth. Draco could have kicked himself. How had he not noticed this? True, he was a heavy sleeper, but still. She was his wife. But even as he thought it, Draco knew that could never have been true. Hermione was excellent at keeping things to herself if she didn't want them known._

_"I can't tell him," she whispered, burying her face into her hands. "I just can't."_

The memory swirled in front of them, changing.

_She was writing in her diary on the dining table in the kitchen. It was late. The scratch of her quill was frantic, as if she were in a hurry to write it down. She was whispering something, and Draco and Harry moved in closer to hear._

_"I keep dreaming she's still alive. I've dreamt it before, but that was soon after the war. I didn't think the dream would come back."_

_Her murmurs matched the sentences she wrote out. Draco wondered, briefly, if she always wrote in her diary like this –talking to herself the whole while. He forced himself to focus back on her entry._

_"Could she really be- I mean- I killed her. I remember that. How could she be-?"_

_She made a noise of frustration and slammed the diary shut. Footsteps sounded from the other side of the wall and she quickly pocketed the diary, hiding it in her jacket. Memory Draco stepped into the kitchen, shirtless and yawning. "'Mione?" he called sleepily, too drowsy to sound out her whole name. "Why're you still up?"_

_"Nothing, Draco." She smiled tightly. "Just couldn't sleep."_

_"Come back to bed," he said, holding out his hand. "I get lonely without you."_

_She hesitated, briefly touched the diary in her pocket. Then she held out her other hand with a laugh. "All right then."_

Again, the scene shifted.

_"Harry?"_

_Both of them started at the sound of her voice. She couldn't see them, could she-? But then they realized where they were, and almost laughed. A memory Harry sat at his office desk, which was swamped with stacks of papers, with more scattered about the floor. She was peeking through the door, obviously not wanting to disturb._

_"Mm?" was all Harry replied._

_"It's me," she said softly._

_"Hermione!" Harry finally looked up. "Merlin, I didn't realize. Sorry. I-"_

_"It's all right." A small tinkling laugh. Draco's heart clenched._

_"How can I help you?"_

_"I just-" Hesitation._

_"Yeah?"_

_"I just wanted to check up on the Death Eater investigations."_

_"Ah." Harry's face closed up. Both the real Harry and Draco knew why. In those early days of freedom and victory, the investigations had been tough. The Death Eaters who remained alive had gone into hiding –either physically, or behind wealth and prestige. Lucius Malfoy in particular had been hard to pin down, but his son's testimony –however much it had hurt- had been enough to put him away. Some they never found, while others (mostly the sons of established Death Eaters, like Blaise) had been granted amnesty and were allowed back into wizard society._

_"I'm sorry. I know it's a hard topic, but –I mean, I'm still a little-"_

_"We're trying our best, Hermione." Memory Harry forced a smile. "Why do you ask?"_

_A split second's hesitation before answering. "I just wanted to check. I still feel a little scared every time I leave the apartment, knowing some of them are still out there."_

_Harry gave a short laugh. "Don't worry, Hermione. We'll get them soon."_

_"All right." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "And-"_

_"Yes?"_

_"The death list –it's final, right?"_

_"The death- Oh, for them? Yeah, why?"_

_"Nothing. Just reassuring myself. Take care, Harry."_

_She left the office abruptly, before memory Harry could reply. The outer office, with all the Aurors, was empty, the employees probably on lunch break or out working. Draco and the real Harry watched as she leaned against the door, panting. She put her hand into her pocket, withdrew it, opened her hand and stared at her palm. Gingerly, forgetting Hermione could neither see nor feel them, the two boys leaned over to see what she was holding. It was another note._

_I'm coming for you._

**xxxxx**

Draco felt himself being lifted up as if by an invisible crane. Next thing he knew, he was stumbling back from Harry's desk, his head spinning slightly. Beside him, Harry looked similarly dazed. Draco clutched at his shirt collar, breathing heavily, feeling his heart beat rapidly from shock. What they had seen- how could- was it even- possible?

"Bellatrix?" Harry's incredulous voice broke the silence in the office. His expression mirrored Draco's own. Their eyes met. Draco was the first to look away. All the fears he'd had of his plan not working, they'd all crumbled now. They had found something, all right –something much, much more than either of them could have ever imagined.

The shimmering light of the Pensieve combined with the dying light from the windows to throw shadows onto Draco's face. His eyes narrowed. "Bellatrix."

**xxxxx**

_A/N Short-ish chapter is short, I know, but I hope it's worth it! Did the plot suddenly get too strange? Do you want to stop reading because I'm not making sense anymore? R&R please! Let me know what you think! (If anyone's still reading this, that is. Haha.) I'll try to update again as soon as I can, especially since I've got ideas now._

_Again, thank you for your patience. I really hope this chapter doesn't disappoint._

_Edit- sorry about the dialogue up there. FFnet cocked up my formatting again (I think) and removed the quotation marks, for some reason. Fixed it now! (I hope.)  
><em>


	13. Music

_A/N Okay, okay, I know. Another delayed update. But just so you guys know, I don't abandon fics! I just… fall into writing funks from time to time. Hopefully I'll be able to update once more after this while I'm still on semestral break (and while still capable of forcing myself to write). Otherwise, updates will again be somewhat slow. Really, really sorry! *puppy face*_

_Okay anyway chapter time. This chapter and other following ones will be reasons for my upping the rating of this fic._

**xxxxx**

"Bellatrix?" Harry asked incredulously for the tenth time that night. He stared at his glass of Firewhisky uncomprehendingly.

"Bellatrix." Draco nodded a bit harder than he intended, his head jerking up and down like those demented bobble-head toys humans were obsessed with. "Bloody hell, Potter, why didn't we ever notice anything?" he asked, taking a long drink from his own glass. The conversation had been pretty much the same ever since they'd come to the pub.

"Because we never expected Bellatrix." Harry sipped his own drink, glad for the slight numbness it brought. Draco wasn't exactly supposed to be drinking again –especially not after the last incident- but Harry felt alcohol was necessary to soften the blow they'd just received.

"I know but-!" Draco snarled in frustration as he slammed his glass down onto the countertop. "I just wish I'd seen any of that. Nightmares, late nights… anything."

Harry laughed and took another swig of his drink. "Sod off it, Malfoy. Hermione was damn freaking good at hiding things she didn't want people to know." He belched and stifled a giggle. It was their fourth round of the night and he was starting to feel the effects. "You didn't even know she owned a diary until Kingsley sent it to you."

"But Bellatrix?" Draco raised his head and met Harry's eyes with a bewildered expression. "I mean- we all saw- Hermione-"

"Killed her." Harry nodded solemnly and waved his glass in the air, signing the barman for a refill. "I know."

"So how could she be alive?" Draco shook his head slowly, bringing it down so his forehead rested on the damp rim of his glass. He studied Harry through his peripheral vision.

A dark look crossed Harry's face, his fist clenching on the counter. "I think I know."

"You- what?" Draco shot up, upsetting his glass and spilling the rest of his Firewhisky on the counter. "Why the bloody hell haven't you said anything? You could have saved me a couple of galleons here, what with all the booze I've drunk, Potter." He glowered at the boy sitting next to him.

"Sorry." Harry's lips tightened to a thin line, his gaze flicking from Draco to a spot on the counter surface. "I've just- I've been trying to think of another way- _any _other way- for her to be alive right now. A doppelganger, Polyjuice Potion, Metamorphmagus –but none of it makes any sense; none of it adds up. I've spent the last three rounds of whisky trying to find even the smallest, the most_ impossible _loophole, and I _can__'__t_._"_ He slammed his glass down on the table so hard it cracked, and dropped his head to the counter, his hands clutching at his mess of hair. "God, Malfoy, I'd give the world right now not to be thinking this, but it's the only thing that explains this crap."

"Spit it out already, Potter!" Draco's heart was cranking out a thousand beats a second. He'd rarely seen Harry this- this- frustrated. This angry. "What the fuck is it?"

Harry lifted his head slightly, palms digging into his temple. Draco heard him grind his teeth in frustration, and braced himself. After a long pause- so long that Draco was tempted to just hex the answer out of Harry- Harry let out a long breath and whispered two words that made Draco wish he'd never even asked:

"A Horcrux."

**xxxxx**

The clock on the bedside table read 3:41 am, but Draco wasn't asleep. He couldn't sleep. Who could, after going through what he had today? He'd pried into his beloved wife's memories, found out she'd been hounded by his own insane, homicidal aunt, and learned that said aunt was back from the dead via a bit of dangerous, dark and demented magic. He'd be lucky if he managed to get _any _sleep, ever again, after that.

Sighing, Draco sat up and rubbed exhaustion away from his eyes. He hated this feeling- when you were tired, but not sleepy. Harry had explained the particulars of Horcruxes back at the bar, detailing how he, Ron and Hermione had rounded up Voldemort's Horcruxes back in their seventh year while Draco was busy playing double agent. The conversation had pretty much died after that, as each of them attempted to absorb the day's events and the newfound knowledge it brought. After their eighth round of drinks, they'd noticed the hour and decided to part ways, resolving to meet up again tomorrow to view more of Hermione's memories. Draco had been given leave from work "to act as consultant and agent" in this "official Auror investigation," something he was grateful to Harry for setting up. He doubted he could face all that paperwork in his current condition.

Growling in frustration at the memories of all these particulars, he got up, craving a cup of tea, if only for something to do at this godforsaken hour. He padded downstairs, the moonlight rippling over his bare torso. He flicked on the kitchen lights, set up the kettle, and approached the table- and stopped. Hermione's memories were still fresh in his mind, and he could still see it in his mind: the image of her sitting at this very table, scribbling in her diary, verging on hysterical as she muttered about her dreams and her haunter. He flinched. But then the thought piqued his other memories, and leaving the kettle to boil, he returned to his room, searching. After a few moments of fumbling and cursing inanimate objects, he found what he was looking for: her diary. At the very least, it would give him something to do.

Making his way back downstairs, he lazily flicked through the pages, skimming over various entries. The post-Christmas ones slowly –almost imperceptibly- decreased in happiness as their various attempts at planning Voldemort's downfall came to dead ends. The kettle began to whistle and he moved over to the stove to turn it off. As soon as the knob clicked, however, his eye spotted a rather…_sexual_ reference and a faint blush crept to his cheeks. Tea quite forgotten, he sat down on the floor and began to read.

**xxxxx**

_I don't know what to make of this day._

_It's 4 in the morning. The curtains of my room are parted slightly. I can see the moon, the stars; it all looks so peaceful out there. A complete opposite of how I feel. I'm so rumpled up inside I don't even know where to begin explaining._

_On the bed, just a few feet away, Draco lies on his chest, one arm flung out over where I'd been sleeping. His hair falls over his eyes and he snores lightly –it's almost like a purr, which makes me smile. He's pushed the sheets down in his sleep, so they barely come up to his hips. The moonlight plays on his sleeping form, his scars showing against his skin. If I hadn't been looking I might have missed most of them. Scars from his fight with Harry in the bathroom in our sixth year, scars from other fights; scars from his most recent attack, some of which are still quite red. They criss-cross over his back, his chest, his shoulders; they go down his arms, even on his face. I'd never really seen the full extent of all he's been through until tonight._

_I look at them, at him, bathed in moonshine and temporary serenity. He is beautiful._

_Today was another frustrated attempt at coming up with a plan. We've gotten almost all the Horcruxes out of the way; it's just Nagini left. Blasted snake. We've pieced together and written down any and all information we've gathered over the past few years, from Voldemort's childhood to his choice of wardrobe. But until we have more information about his current activities and potential whereabouts, we can't really do much. Fred and George, in a surprising move (surprising given how they've been acting for the past few months), volunteered to go out and hunt information (disguised, of course). They left yesterday morning; we're waiting for them to come back with their first report. Trying not to think about the possibility of their not returning._

_I don't know why, but all the frustration of dead-end plans, of arguments, of not much food and far less sleep, of deaths and attacks built up and in the middle of our planning session, after Harry started reading aloud everything we knew, from the very beginning, for what felt like the thousandth time, I snapped. I started going on about how it was all useless, how we were getting absolutely nowhere, how everything we did was just a failure. Before I could stop myself I was screaming about how much I hated all this: the confinement, the ignorance, the lack of anything useful to do. I screamed and screamed and Harry and Ginny and everyone else just stared at me, not knowing what to do, and I screamed and then Draco came up and slapped me and I shut up. I shut up and looked at all of them, horrified at what I'd done, and I turned and ran out of the room._

_By the time I made it to the bedroom I was practically sobbing. I don't know what made me do it- I just did. I exploded and everything I'd tried so hard to keep inside just flooded out. And the worst thing is, now I realize how incredibly stupid I was to think that way. Now I realize how wrong it all was._

_The door opened and I looked up. I hadn't realized I'd been on the bed until then. It was Draco. He approached me hesitantly, almost fearfully, probably thinking I might lash out at him. A wave of guilt washed over me again and I hurled myself at him in a bruising kiss. All we'd ever done up until now was kiss, but after everything that's happened, I felt the need to something –anything- to make me feel even the slightest bit of pleasure. Even the slightest bit alive. I pressed up against him so hard it felt like I was embedding myself into his body, which was exactly what I wanted. I only pulled back when the kiss started becoming asphyxiating. When I did, Draco looked fairly dazed. I almost laughed._

"_Sleep with me," I whispered, not even pausing to think about my actions anymore. I needed this. It was my first time and it would be far from perfect, far from tender and loving and gentle. But I wanted it that way. I wanted something to make me feel._

"_W-what?" he stammered, his eyes widening. In response, I only kissed him again, harder. He pulled away, murmuring my name, but I only caught his lips again. He tried again and this time, a little put off, I listened. "Are you sure?" he asked._

"_I need this," I replied, kissing him again as I unbuttoned his shirt. Once more he tried to protest but I ground myself to him, biting down on his lip for emphasis. He finally gave in and slipped one arm around my waist, the other one moving behind him to lock the door._

_It was incredible. I don't want to ruin it by writing it down –flattening the experience into words would only taint it. But I will write down some things, like the way he flinched when I got his shirt unbuttoned all the way, exposing all his scars. The way he inhaled sharply as I traced each one with my fingers. The way he blanched away. The way the passion flared in his eyes when I turned his head toward me and whispered fiercely, "never be ashamed of these. They say you are strong. They make you beautiful." The way he kissed me after that. The way he handled me, almost reverently, and yet with a force I never knew existed inside him. The way he went down on me, with obvious experience, then shared the taste of it with me. The way I gripped the sheets so tightly I ripped through them as he entered me for the first time, flooding me with passion and pain. Ripped the cloth as he ripped through me. _

_And we came together. Adagio, andante, allegro. Affannato, acceso, appasionnato. Crescendo, finis. (*)_

_I will never forget the sound of my name on his lips as he climaxed. I never want anyone else to call my name that way, ever again._

_I never want anyone else to make me feel so alive. So complete. So loved._

_Up until now we have never told each other, "I love you." We don't need to. Our love is louder than words._

**xxxxx**

Draco's face was flushed as he reached the end of the entry. He remembered that day very well. He remembered her fingers dancing over his scars. He had always been embarrassed about them, had even hated them, but Hermione had shown him how to be proud of each mark, each cut, each slash of lighter skin. _They __make__ you__ beautiful._

She had been so beautiful that night, pressed unto the bed by their actions. She was a silent lover, but her eyes and her hands said more than any scream could. She had left marks on him: crescent moons from her nails on his shoulders, nips of red from her teeth on his neck and chest. Lips swollen from kissing. When she had climaxed, shuddering against his body –his name was the only noise that escaped her lips. Low, whispered, breathless, and enough to drive him over the edge. One word. That was all.

So beautiful.

Draco stood, grabbed his cloak, pocketed the diary. The Ministry would be practically empty at this time but it would be open. It always was, for those who worked late nights, international shifts; for emergencies. He was shirtless but it didn't really matter, since no one would really see him. He belted the cloak and grabbed a fistful of Floo powder, flinging it into the flames. Almost before they turned green he was stepping into them, and whirling away.

By the time he reached Harry's office, the first rays of light were peeking over the horizon. There were small hints of pink and orange and green in the sky. He quietly opened the door. The shimmering silver light of the Pensieve winked at him from the glass cabinet it was stored in. He stepped inside, hardly daring to breathe.

"I had a feeling you'd come."

He was almost surprised to hear Harry's voice, but only almost. "You're starting to get to know me too well."

"I know."

They stepped up to the Pensieve at the same time. "After you," Draco bowed, smirking.

Harry nodded and plunged in. This time, with no hesitations, Draco followed.

**xxxxx**

_A/N For the (*), these are terms in music. They're in Italian. The first three indicate tempo: slow, moderate, fast. The next three describe ways to play: anguished, fierce, passionate. Crescendo describes increase, finis for finish or ending._

"_Our love is louder than words" is from one of my favorite songs, Sunday by Bloc Party. I don't know about you guys, but I think it's semi-appropriate for their intimate scene. It makes a good soundtrack in my head._

_Did I get cheesy up there? I damn well hope I didn't._

_Why does FFnet keep cocking up my italics and making them stick together?  
><em>

_Worth the wait?_


	14. Possibilities

_A/N Yes, I took forever. Please forgive me? If anyone's still reading?_

_And now, here be the next chapter. I'll warn you guys again: the next update might take a while. But hopefully not as long as this one took. Because there were literally months between updates._

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_They were in her office, the newer one, in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Piles of papers covered the desk and the low table in the room; the waste bin was overflowing. A green top hat with a spinning four-leaf clover hummed to itself from atop a stack of books. Hermione was showing out a foreign wizard – French, by the looks and the accent – smiling and saying she'd be in touch about the upcoming meeting regarding the Quidditch World Cup._

_She was still smiling as she closed the door, and as she made her way back to her desk to comb through some paperwork that needed to be done. She was still smiling even as an envelope fell into her drop slot, forwarded over by the Ministry Post Officials. She reached over and took it out, her expression mildly curious. Harry and Draco leaned over her desk to see what she'd received. The envelope was plain enough, her name scrawled out in ink. She opened it, drew out a photograph–_

–_and abruptly threw her chair backward as she scrambled away, her hands pressed to her mouth in an attempt to stifle her scream._

_Draco himself had recoiled in horror, and Harry had gone from pale to a sickly shade of green. The photograph fluttered down to her desktop, lying innocuously amongst papers and quills. Staring at it, Draco felt the bile rise in his throat. Across from them, Hermione was pressed up against her office wall, shaking._

_Both Draco and Harry remembered that moment – and Draco had even played witness – but neither of them could explain how there came to be a photograph – a moving, magical photograph – of Bellatrix raising her wand, training it on a screaming, scarred, thrashing Hermione, in that room in Malfoy Manor, every syllable of the Cruciatus Curse readable in the cruel curve of her lips._

The scene shifted, abruptly. Draco struggled to suppress the urge to retch. Harry was frozen in place, shaking.

_They were in Draco's apartment. Twilight was setting in, the dying light filtering through the curtains. Draco watched his memory form read a book as Hermione, wearing only her underwear and one of Draco's older button-downs, idly traced meaningless patterns on his bare chest. Harry's embarrassed blush half-lightened the atmosphere, but Draco remembered this scene all too well to truly laugh._

"_Draco?" Hermione spoke at length, the timidity of her voice filling both Dracos, and Harry, with unease. She propped herself up on one elbow, the other pausing its ministrations._

_Memory Draco closed his book immediately, turning to his wife, one arm going around her shoulders. "Yes?"_

_Silence followed, the expectant kind, as Memory Draco eyed his wife curiously, and Hermione brought her free hand to her mouth, nervously chewing on a fingernail. "You – in our wedding vows, you swore to protect me always, yes?"_

"_Of course." Memory Draco frowned, drawing her hand from her mouth. "With my life."_

"_And I, you," she went on, withdrawing her hand and cupping his cheek._

"_Though I hardly deem it necessary," Memory Draco replied with a smile. "Is something wrong?"_

"_No – nothing." Hermione let her hand drop and offered Memory Draco a smile, which he returned, drawing her down for a kiss. Their lips locked for a few moments before Hermione pulled back and settled contentedly in his embrace. The room darkened, some soft lights magically turned on, and within a few minutes Memory Draco was snoring softly, one arm draped loosely around Hermione. She sat up, gently dislodging his arm so as not to wake him. The happiness that had just been in her eyes had dissipated, replaced by fear and something akin to determination. One shoulder of the button-down had slipped, and there – if one knew what to look for – was a small scar, one of the few remnants of her torture._

"_Could you protect me from this?"_

The scene changed again.

_Hermione in the early hours of the morning, her cheek pressed against the toilet seat, breathing heavy. Dawn peeked through the bathroom window. The nauseating scent of vomit clouded the room. She closed her eyes, breathed through her mouth, and then-_

"_Oh god," followed by the sound of retching. A soft knock on the closed door._

"_Hermione?"_

_More retching. Harry had his eyes closed, hands clamped over his ears. Draco could see the sickened expression on his face in the mirror over the sink. A few steps away, the bathroom door opened, and Memory Draco stepped in._

"_Hermione, what-?" He stopped at the sight of his wife, kneeling on the floor, bowed over the toilet. "What's wrong?"_

"_Draco-" Cut off by another round of vomit, cheeks splotchy and back heaving._

And again.

"_Where do you want to have lunch, Hermione?" Harry's voice startled them both; he hadn't appeared in the memories until now. They were in Muggle London, a district with many restaurants. Hermione's cheeks were happy pink as she leaned against a street lamp, looking around her._

"_I-" She blinked and frowned. "I have the strangest craving for a burger."_

And again.

_Another street in Muggle London. Hermione wove through the afternoon crowd, a scarf wound around her neck and the lower half of her face, a hat obscuring most of her hair. She had her coat pulled tight around her. She stopped a few times to look over her shoulder or at her surroundings in general. Finally, she paused outside a large building near the river. Hesitating, and with another glance over her shoulder, she ascended the steps into the London Bridge Hospital._

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Draco stumbled as his feet hit the floor of Harry's office; beside him, Harry was blinking dazedly. This new series of memories had been just as confusing as the last one, except this time they made much less sense and gave them no new information. And Draco could not stifle the guilt he felt at the memory of her, tangled up in their sheets, his button-down hanging loose on her slender frame, the hands holding it closed clenched 'til her knuckles stood white on white. Asking him to do as he had vowed at their wedding –asking him to do what he had ultimately failed to do.

_Could you protect me from this?_

"What the bloody hell was any of that about?" Harry gave voice to both of their thoughts as he plopped into his desk chair, his tone one of utter confusion. His skinny arms dangled over the armrests, his body slumped.

"Search me," Draco replied, one finger tracing the rim of the Pensieve. Those last three memories had been the most baffling. He remembered waking up at daybreak to find her warm presence gone, replaced by the sound of someone throwing up in the toilet. That visit to a hospital, however, he knew nothing of. Why had she gone to a Muggle hospital? Why had she been so wary?

"Goddamnit, Hermione," he whispered, hands clenched in fists on either side of the shimmering bowl. "What were you hiding?"

Harry stirred at the sound of Draco's voice. "Did she ever tell you about the hospital? Was she sick?"

"No."

"Didn't you ask? I mean, didn't you want-?"

"I said no, Potter!" Even Draco had to flinch at the venom in his voice. He hadn't meant for it to come out so sharp. "She never told me," he went on, softer, regretful. "She never told me any of this!"

"Draco-"

"Why didn't she, Harry?" Draco looked up at Harry's pained expression. "Why did she never tell me? Why didn't she tell me she was hurting, that she was haunted, that all this _crap _was going on in her life? I'm her husband, damnit – didn't she trust me?" He was ranting now, and he knew it. He wasn't directing this at Harry anymore. He wasn't asking Harry all these questions. He was letting this out, not at the pained man in front of him, but at the woman lying alone in the Janus Thickey ward at St. Mungo's.

"I don't know why she didn't, Draco, but that's what we're trying to find out." Harry had stepped closer, dropping his voice to a more soothing tone, trying to calm Draco down. "We'll work this out."

"I promised her, Harry." And Draco was on his knees now, forehead pressed against the wood of Harry's desk. "I promised I would protect her all her life, with all of mine." Heavy heart, heavy thoughts. "I promised."

For a moment they were silent, Harry standing at his desk, green eyes fixed on white blonde hair as Draco knelt on his carpet. There was so much that could have been said, but in the end Harry simply looked away from his grieving friend and said, "I'll have someone check out that hospital, or do it myself if I have the time. Check her diary, see if she wrote anything about it there. I'll call on you tomorrow when I get off."

Draco nodded from where he was, a little reluctant to get up, but incredibly grateful for what Harry had said. Words of comfort would have been meaningless and would have assuaged nothing; at least this way, he had something definite to do. He could not keep breaking down like this.

He got up, nodded at Harry, and left the room, making his way down to the Ministry lobby. Standing in front of a vacant fireplace, he stared at the flames, unsure of where to go. Going home meant facing an empty apartment and her diary; going to St. Mungo's meant enjoying the company of a lucid Hermione, or withdrawing from a deranged one. And going to the pub meant inciting Harry's wrath the minute he found out Draco had let alcohol touch his lips. He remained standing there, feeling rather lost, until someone hesitantly tapped his shoulder.

Expecting Harry, Draco lazily looked over his shoulder, ready to cock an eyebrow at whatever his friend had to say now. Any playful arrogance on his part, however, disintegrated when he was greeted not by glass-covered green eyes, but nervous, slanted brown ones.

"Draco?"

Said boy could not help but back away a step at the sight of his former friend and Housemate. Of all the people he'd expected to be greeting him like this at the Ministry, it was not Blaise Zabini. And yet here he was, hand still raised, shoulders tense.

"Blaise," he managed to get out, unable to hide the surprise in his voice. "Did you want something?"

"N-no, I just…" Blaise trailed off, looking quite unsure of why he'd come up to Draco in the first place. The uncertainty brought a small smile to Draco's lips. He'd have paid good money to see his former friend like this back in the Hogwarts days, to see smooth, cocksure Blaise be so…unconfident. "You looked pretty lost, so I thought I'd just… check," he offered half-heartedly.

Draco tilted his head slightly to the side, studying his former friend. Of all the people who he'd socialized with back in Hogwarts, Blaise was the only one he was still on something resembling speaking terms with. Pansy had all but dropped from his radar, and he didn't even know if Crabbe and Goyle had survived the war. Most of the Slytherins had been granted amnesty because it had been their parents and not them who'd participated in Voldemort's rise, but Draco had distanced himself from them, and they had only been too happy to do the same. After all, Draco was pretty much a traitor to the Dark Lord, a double agent who'd been on Potter's side in the end.

"D'you wanna get something to eat?" The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and judging by Blaise's expression, he was as shocked as Draco felt. And yet Draco found he was not entirely averse to the idea. Their past was just that: the past.

"I'd…" Blaise looked like he didn't know what to reply. But then a hesitant smile – but a smile nonetheless – broke over his face. "I'd like that."

"My place or yours?" Draco felt his trademark smirk turning up the corners of his lips.

"I don't think you could cook at mine, mate." Blaise chuckled and gestured to the fireplace. Draco laughed and grabbed a handful of Floo powder, tossing it into the flames with a flourish. Suddenly going back to the apartment didn't seem so bad.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Eight bottles of butterbeer, three plates of penne in basil pesto, and a match of wizard's chess later, Draco was sprawled out on his couch, Blaise lounging in the couch nearby. Draco was still wheezing slightly from his laughing fit over a story Blaise had recounted, about a recent engagement he'd managed to wiggle out of. It was a little hard for either of them to believe that even after all these years, Blaise's parents refused to believe Blaise was batting for a different team.

"So how is she?" came Blaise's quiet voice around a swig of butterbeer, and Draco sobered immediately. He'd been hoping Blaise wouldn't touch on this subject, that his friend's (because that's what they were, really, despite the silence they'd held up to now) presence would distract him from his guilt and his regret and his pain. But Blaise only meant well.

"Her condition hasn't changed," was his curt reply, try as he might to keep his tone moderate.

"Oh." Silence. "How long has it-"

"Two years."

"Ah." Another silence, longer this time. "Have you ever thought-"

"No." Draco raised his head to glower at his friend.

"Did you even know what I was going to ask?" Blaise raised his eyebrows at Draco over the mouth of his bottle.

"Doesn't matter." Draco slumped back on the couch, suddenly irritated at his friend. Why had he thought it was a good idea to invite him over again?

"It's a legitimate question, Draco." Blaise's voice was soft but serious. "Have you ever thought of…you know…letting her g-"

"NO!" Draco shot up from the couch, blood boiling. How dare Blaise – how could he even think of – never, not in his life - ! "I would never, Blaise. She's my wife!"

"And she's in pain," Blaise went on in the same voice, setting his bottle down onto the table. "She's suffering, and it doesn't look like she's going to get better. It's an option-"

"No it isn't." Draco was standing now, his hands clenched at his sides, his body shaking. "How could you even suggest-!"

"Because you're in pain too." Blaise's eyes were lowered now, his hands clasped, elbows on his knees. "Because this is driving _you _crazy as well."

And Draco stood there, staring at his friend, his one-time enemy, at the person who'd gone through the same things he had as a child. The person whom at one point he would have willingly called his closest -well, not friend, because Slytherins did not have friends. Closest ally. Draco fell back onto the couch and stared into middle distance and did not know what to say, except "I can't."

"I know, my friend." Blaise stood and walked over, taking a seat next to Draco, seeing not the traitor Death Eater or the Muggle-born lover or the arrogant schoolboy, but a man who simply wanted his wife back by his side. "I know."

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_A/N So, was this chapter too jumbled? Did too many things happen? Was the Blaise part too weird? Any guesses on what Hermione was hiding? I hope you liked this chapter, especially after the delay. Constructive criticism is always welcome!_


	15. Could and Couldn't

_A/N I wrote you guys a one-shot as a way of apologizing for my update delays (haha). Check it out! It's called Malfoy and the Mirror. I'll be writing a few song-inspired one shots in between updates of my fics, just because there are so many songs that remind me of Dramione. I have a whole playlist of them in my iPod._

_Was I that obvious in the last chapter? HAHA. I was hoping to keep it in at least **some **suspense… but you guys got it anyway. Oh well. Your guesses as to why she's insane, though, aren't all too correct. But someone came really close!_

_Enjoy the next update! It's a fairly long one because I got into a writing mood._

**xxxxxxxxxx**

The next morning, Harry hadn't owled or called to tell him they'd be venturing into the Pensieve that day, so Draco took the opportunity to visit Hermione at St. Mungo's. He'd received a message, after Blaise had left the other night, that she was acting up again, demanding the reason behind her hospitalization, looking for people long dead. The Healer who'd sent the message said he wished to discuss some matters of sensitive nature with Draco (whatever that bollocks could mean), so Draco decided to call as soon as possible.

The lobby of St. Mungo's was filled with the usual pre-holiday crowd, vying for spell reversals and potion cures. Draco neatly sidestepped a particularly deranged looking woman who was convinced he was her father (the man gripping her arm gave him an exasperated but apologetic look as he tried to drag her away) and made his way up the stairs, which were less crowded than the elevators but still bustling nonetheless. The Janus Thickey ward was, as always, much quieter than any of the others, though Draco noted the presence of a new patient who seemed to have changed his legs for tentacles and was now lounging in the middle of a water tan, staring murder at the world.

"Says he woke up that way a few days ago, poor bloke," a Healer commented from where she'd come in, her brow furrowing in worry. "Took him a while to get here because his mum was in Amsterdam and the other people in his apartment were passed out cold. In the end he had to call his next-door neighbors. Thank goodness they were wizards. Apparated him straight here, though he Splinched a tentacle on the way."

"I'm, er, here to see Healer Carnegie?" Draco put forth, deciding it was better not to comment on the story of Mr. Half-man, Half-octopus, given how he was sending death glares their way.

"Oh, you must be Mr. Malfoy!" she exclaimed, one hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, my apologies, I hadn't recognized you. It's my first time on this floor." She flushed slightly and backed up toward the door. "Please, have a seat. I'll fetch Healer Carnegie now."

"I will wait in my wife's room, thank you," Draco replied quietly, a tight smile tugging at his lips.

"Of course, sir." The Trainee Healer flashed him an embarrassed smile as she fumbled with the doorknob and left. Draco made his way across the room, careful to steer clear of the water tank, and entered Hermione's private room.

She was awake, reading the book Harry had sent her, two weeks early for Christmas. As he stepped inside she looked up, and Draco was careful not to close the door right away. If she did not recognize him –

"I was wondering when you'd get here. Healer Carnegie said he was expecting you." Her face broke out into a smile and she settled the book on her lap, one finger left between the pages to mark where she'd stopped reading. Draco noticed the familiar gesture and remembered all the times she'd wandered his apartment, book in hand, one finger between the pages. She'd curse vehemently every time she'd drop a book because it meant losing her place. He'd asked her once why she didn't use bookmarks; she said she lost them too many times. The pages of her favorite books were filled with flattened KitKat wrappers and faded receipts and sticky notes from when a finger just wouldn't do.

"I didn't receive his memo until late last night, so I wasn't able to come until now." He shrugged off his coat, tossed it on the bed by her blanketed feet, and sat down next to her. Immediately she moved closer to him, almost imperceptibly, and his hand came up to twirl a lock of her hair around his fingers. (_What is it Muggles say – tied with apron strings? _he'd once asked her. _I don't wear aprons, _she'd stated, and he'd laughingly replied, _they wouldn't suit you, anyway._) "How are you feeling?"

"A little light-headed, but otherwise all right." She settled her head into the crook of his shoulder, her arms coming around his waist, the book dropping to her side. Her face was buried into his shirt. When she spoke, her voice was muffled by the cloth and the hair pinned between. "They won't tell me why I'm here, Draco. Did – did something happen in Grimmauld Place?"

He stiffened at her words, his heart jumping to a hundred beats a minute and then some. Her arms immediately loosened around him, her face pulling away ever so slightly as she waited for his response. But what could he say? When did she think it even was? How could he even begin to explain–?

"Mr. Malfoy?" A knock sounded at the door, and it opened to reveal a thin, bespectacled young man clutching a clipboard. "My name is Healer Carnegie. I'm a specialist studying your wife's case. I believe you received my message yesterday?"

Draco felt Hermione's fists clench and unclench around his shirt, something she sometimes did when irritated, and sighed – partly out of annoyance, but mostly out of relief. He gently pried her hands from his button-down and leaned over to kiss her forehead. "Later," he whispered against her skin, and made to draw away.

She caught him by the collar and pulled him down for a deeper kiss on the lips. "I'll hold you to that," she murmured against his lips, before picking up her book, a small growl escaping her as she noticed she'd lost her place. Draco chuckled and followed the Healer out.

"This way, please. We can use the conference hall across the ward," the Healer said, opening the door and gesturing to another one opposite. Draco entered, apprehensive. There were two more people in the room; he recognized Healer Hornby, the Healer currently in charge of the Janus Thickey ward. The other man he had never seen before. He was portly and rather serious-faced, and his dark suit did not speak of good things.

"Please have a seat, Mr. Malfoy." Healer Carnegie nodded at an available chair before moving to one across the small table. He turned to the other two in the room. "Healer Hornby? Mr. Jeevas?" The female Healer smiled and took the seat next to Healer Carnegie; the other man – Jeevas, was it? – simply shook his head. Draco gracefully fell into the offered chair. "Well. All right then." Healer Carnegie cleared his throat, shuffled his papers, adjusted his spectacles and clasped his hands. A series of gestures that Draco knew by now did not bode well in hospitals.

"Mr. Malfoy, your wife has been in the Janus Thickey ward under the care of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries for almost a year now, since her mysterious appearance in our lobby last February. It has since then been determined that some spell of unknown form and origin has caused her to become clinically insane. She suffers periodic memory loss, the extent of which fluctuates with no noticeable pattern, as well as occasional seizures, fits and lapses in consciousness. During her lucid periods we have determined she can clearly remember events up until the day of her disappearance, of which you have informed us. But she shows no knowledge of what has transpired during the two years since then."

There was a pregnant pause as the Healer thumbed through his papers, during which Draco's fists were clenched and teeth grit as he attempted to control his temper. He'd heard this enough times before; was this all they wanted to tell him?

"A score of Healers have attempted to trace the source of this madness, from tried-and-tested spells and potions to some more radical methods. There has been little to no progress, though some of Healer Akihiko Koizumi's research suggests the cause of her madness may be linked to a particular person, and that were this bond severed, her sanity might return. I have been attempting to do some research and testing myself, but have not managed to produce significant result." Healer Carnegie cleared his throat again and Draco's irritation peaked higher. He did not like hearing his wife put in terms of medical research and testing. She was a brilliant human being, not a hypothetical test case. "Some of your wife's other doctors and I have met with other specialists in this, er, field, to discuss the remaining options for her. This was done last week. I have asked you here today that I may present these options to you now, if you wish." Here he paused again and looked pointedly at Draco, who briefly contemplated walking out without hearing of these "options." But there was trepidation behind his irritation now. He simply nodded for the Healer to continue.

"The first option is to have her brought to Japan, that Healer Koizumi might continue his research with her actually present. He is among the few Healers who have actually come up with concrete suggestions to explain your wife's malady, and the only one who may hypothesize a solution. He has a few tests which he would like to perform on your wife, Mrs. Hermione Malfoy, as well as a few questions for yourself. She will, of course, have access to the best facilities and treatments available in the Tokyo region, where Healer Koizumi is based." The Healer paused yet again to clear his throat. He was fiddling with his spectacles and his papers, a clear sign of nervousness, which set Draco even more uneasy.

"The next option is more drastic, and involves delving into your wife's memories and thoughts to try and draw out the cause of her madness. There are many possible methods: Legilimency, the use of a Pensieve, certain potions and draughts. I can, of course, present to you the advantages and disadvantages of each." Healer Carnegie tugged a paper out of his sheaf and placed it on the table before Draco. "This option has actually been put forth by a few Healers in the past, but the risks involved – chief among them that her memories might be tampered and therefore useless, or that the process of extraction might damage her further – the risks involved might outweigh the possible outcome. However, in last week's conference, it was decided that the option be presented to you, if only for you to know if its existence."

Draco pulled the paper closer by only the very tips of his fingers, his mouth thin, his eyes looking down without seeing. That was, of course, what he and Harry had set out to do, though it had never occurred to either of them that extracting her memories might further damage her. But judging by her appearance today, it didn't seem to have done any lasting harm. Though it was just another thing for him to agonize over. He nodded at the Healer, gesturing for him to continue.

"The, er, final option," Healer Carnegie continued, his fidgeting becoming more pronounced by the second, "is the reason for Mr. Jeevas's presence. Mr. Jeevas is the in-house lawyer for St. Mungo's, specializing in patient welfare. Should you choose to pursue this option, he will, er, be assisting you with the repercussions."

Mr. Jeevas inclined his head slightly in Draco's direction, who returned the gesture. The anxiety was knotting at Draco's stomach now. What could they possibly suggest that required a _lawyer?_

"Mr. Malfoy, your wife has been hospitalized for almost a year now, without showing signs of improvement. If anything, her sanity is slowly starting to decline; she is insane more often than lucid, and her memory regressions are fluctuating worse and worse. During these lapses she has become more and more violent, twice severely injuring hospital personnel as they attempted to restrain her. She has shown signs of self-harm, which you have, er, previously witnessed. There is a danger she may become wholly detrimental to her health and to the health of those around her, you in particular." The Healer's fingers were drumming on the table, adjusting his spectacles, shuffling his papers, twining and untwining. "A few Healers have broached the subject of Gattsworth's Treatise on the Draught of Living Death and its proposed uses in the medical field, which include, er… Which include…" The Healer trailed off at the look on Draco's face. He didn't remember standing, but standing he was, fists clenched at his side, expression livid. Were they suggesting – how _dare _they even think – what they were asking him to consider –

"Which include inducing comatose in a patient, a coma from which they will never awaken," Healer Hornby finished quietly. "Mr. Malfoy, we realize this is an incredibly painful choice, and we would never think of suggesting it if it were not a viable optio-"

"An incredibly painful choice?" Somehow Draco had found his voice. "You're asking me to k- to ind- to fucking _put my wife to sleep _like some family dog who's gotten too sick to move? She's a _person, _in case you haven't noticed – she's my _wife. _It won't just be 'incredibly painful' to let her go – how could you even – how _dare _you-!"

"Mr. Malfoy, please calm down – it is simply a suggestion-"

"It is _not _an option!" Draco roared, his wand coming out of his pocket, jet of yellow light blasting a hole in the wall right behind Mr. Jeevas. Immediately a handful of Trainee Healers burst into the room, wands at the ready, but Healer Hornby waved them aside.

"We understand your reluctance to see it as such, but-"

"Bloody hell you don't!" And he was shaking now, shaking so hard, because what they'd just asked him to do – the Draught of Living Death – her body, still warm, forever unwaking – he'd already lost her once – "How the bloody hell could you – could _any _of you understand this? How could you even _suggest _– impossible – I would _never_!" He whipped around, trained his wand on Healer Carnegie. "And you! You can tell your precious fucking Healers and specialists that from now on I want _none _of them trying to poke and pry at my wife. You can take your precious bloody research and shove it up your arses."

"Mr. Malfoy, please-"

"No." Draco's voice was steel and fury and the Healers actually blanched as the word shot from his lips. "This is my wife you are speaking of. I will not – I _would never _even _think _about doing that to her. I lost her once already. I will _never _lose her again." He turned, wand up, and glared bloody murder at the Trainees in his way. "Move."

"Mr. Malfoy-"

"I said, move!" The force of his non-verbal spell was enough to send three of the Trainee Healers skittering backward, one flying full force into the wall behind her. Draco strode out of the room, flinging the door of the Janus Thickey ward open without a second thought. He made his way toward the door, the thin wooden door with its mocking brass plate, threw it open and-

Bloody fucking shit.

How could he have forgotten – he'd put it in his coat but not taken it out – left it there without a thought – so _stupid._

Hermione was sitting up on her bed, face pale, sheets in a disarray, fingers shaking, diary open on her lap.

Not for the first time in his life, but probably the most desperate of all times, Draco wished the war had killed him.

"We-" She started to speak, but her voice faltered. She clutched at the pages tighter; her thin shoulders shivered. "You and I-" she tried again. "We're… married?"

And oh, if she had broken his heart before with her forgetfulness and her insanity, it was nothing compared to now. Because there was shock and disgust and wonder and disbelief in her voice, emotions so different from the last time he'd heard those two words from her mouth. And for a second Draco was certain he would faint away, right there in her doorway, the day's events too much for his already broken mind, but instead he dug his voice up from the dust of his heart and said – "yes."

She was silent, too silent, and Draco feared she might – might scream or curse him or simply order him to go away. Instead, she idly flipped a page, then back, and asked, so lost, so frightened, "Why can't I remember?"

_Why can't you? _he wanted to ask, but instead he says, low and saddened_, _"That's why you're here." He moved quietly into the room, closing the door softly behind him. "Because you can't remember."

"I-" Her voice caught in a sob but he couldn't, couldn't go to her and hold her like his mind was screaming at him to. Instead he only moved and sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the small book that carried so much hope and caused so much sadness. "What w – ar – were we like?"

Draco's heart caught his throat as he murmured, almost too quiet for her to hear, "We were good."

She reached out and her fingers brushed his hand, barely stayed on the wedding ring on his finger. "Tell me," she begged. "Tell me things. Anything."

"You can't cook." He couldn't look at her, couldn't, because if he did he'd be able to say nothing. If he did he might die. "Or, well, you can, but barely. You've gotten a bit better over the years. But since I'm the one with the paperwork job, six nights out of seven it's usually me in the kitchen." The words come marching out of his mouth, though he doesn't know how they can. "Whenever you leave for a trip you take something of mine with you. It's usually the shirt I slept in so it smells the most like me. You think I don't notice, you tell me I've already thrown in into the laundry pile, but six times I've checked your suitcase before you unpacked and it's there, rumpled and smelling of you instead."

Her touch on his hand hurt, it burned his skin, but he soldiered on, remembering for her. "You taught me how to watch the telly and how to cook and actually like spam and you filled my tiny apartment with too many books, until it got to the point where we had to rent a storage room in the basement so you could put your library there. You had to leave your damned cat with Potter because the landlord didn't allow pets, though one night you tried to sneak him in and he clawed up my second-best dress robes. You accidentally turned my apartment pink once, Merlin knows how, and it took you three days nonstop research to figure out how to undo it. You-" his voice catches, chokes and her hand's gripping his now, so tightly it's embedding the ring into his skin. "You drove me crazy with all your elf-rights movements and your strange sympathy for goblin rights and you always burnt the toast and once in the middle of sex you remembered you hadn't owled Shacklebot about a meeting and you'd been gone an hour before you realized what situation you'd left me in. You…" He couldn't. He couldn't keep going, not when none of this meant anything to her. He could tell her every one of their stories in the past years but they would only ever be stories to her. "You were the reason I was even alive then."

"I want to remember." She says it like she doesn't realize she's saying it. And they're both crying now, she because she has none of the memories and he because he has them all. "I want – I want-" She broke off, sobbing, both hands around his holding tight, the only touch between them but it was more than any kiss, any embrace could do for them both. "Draco I want to go home."

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_A/N Recommended listenings: Runaway by The National, The Trapeze Swinger by Iron and Wine, and Konstantine by Something Corporate. Because those are the songs I was listening to on loop while I wrote the last part of this chapter._

_If you're bawling your eyes out like I am, feel free to review. If you're not, well, review anyway._


	16. Coming Home

_A/N Thank you so much for the nice reception of that last chapter! In order to make up for an almost two-month hiatus from this story, I be updating twice in two days! Hehe. That and I'm really on a roll for this fanfic. Hopefully I get the ball rolling for Renegade, too…_

_On a side note, I'm getting very excited because I'm going to be writing about their wedding soon, inspired by two songs: Slow Show by The National, and Crash Into Me by Dave Matthews Band. Which gets me thinking about another question to ask you guys (because I like it when you tell me things, like your guesses on where this plot is gonna go):_

_What's your ultimate Dramione song?_

_I'll tell you mine the next time I update. Which won't be for a while; come Thursday I'm leaving on a five-ish day field trip for school (we're going to see some piss-ass cold mountains) so I won't have time to write until after that. Please leave me many happy reviews to read when I get back!_

_Long author's note is long. Chapter time!_

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"This is-?"

"Mine. I bought it a few days after I moved in, from a, antique store around the block. Not that I really use it to store cocktail ingredients, but it makes for a nice display piece."

"And this?"

"Yours. You brought it home from one of your trips to Italy."

"One of?"

"You've been there five times, four times on business. Italy was one of your favorite places to go to, when you worked in International Magical Cooperation, since it was so rich in both wizard and Muggle culture. You took me there once, France twice."

"I've been to France…?"

"Four times. It was a struggle to invite them to join the World Cup after their embarrassing loss in the last one. You'd smoothed it over, though, and Harry was always joking that it was because their Minister took a shine to you and your pretty face."

Hermione laughed, a little hollow, her fingers idly playing with a worn paperback she'd picked from a side table. Jeanette Winterson's _Written on the Body. _"Mine or-"

"Yours. I'm not much for books; I always complained that reading all the paperwork for my job turned me off from reading anything else." Draco ran a finger down the cracked spine. "I have a photo of you based on this, you know."

Her head jerked up, a furious blush spreading across her slightly protruding cheekbones. "Y – you – what?"

"You brought home some fancy Muggle camera for our first anniversary, in April. A Poly – polynoid?"

"Polaroid."

"That." Draco moved over to the bookshelf, hooked his finger around the top of his favorite hardback – one of the few books he really read and enjoyed. He took the photograph from where it was pinned between pages 54 and 55 – where his favorite passage could be located – and handed it to her. "I took this after…the morning after our…anniversary."

"Oh." Her fingers hovered over the dulled photograph of her in a halo of early morning sunlight, her only piece of clothing a rumpled button-down, one shoulder slipping off. There was something dark and loopy on her back that was hard to make out. "Draco, what-?"

"A temporary tattoo." Draco was sitting now, on the couch, the book idly open on his lap. "_Why is the measure of love, loss? _It's from the book." He held it up briefly. "You told me three days afterward, when it had faded, that you'd gotten that particular quote because you felt it summed up our relationship so well."_ Because we had to lose so much in order to love each other,_ he wanted to add, but refrained. This was painful enough for them both.

Hermione was silent, gazing at the photograph from her spot in the middle of Draco's living room, and not for the first time that afternoon he simultaneously felt a dizzying euphoria and a soul-crushing sadness. Yes, she was home, she was _right where he wanted her, _right where he'd dreamed of her being, these past two years – but she was standing in the midst of a home they had built up together, recognizing almost nothing. Items from years back – things she'd carried from Hogwarts days, and some even from her childhood – these she knew and understood. But everything else, things they'd picked out together, things he'd kept and owned in this apartment before she'd moved in, stirred nothing in her.

"How…" Her voice was so quiet he wasn't sure she'd spoken, until she gently placed the photograph on the shelf. "How long were we…?"

"Four years." Draco's wedding ring caught the afternoon sunlight streaming through the curtained windows. His voice felt flat and detached, as if it wasn't him speaking. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe the real him had been locked up somewhere, leaving behind this person who could actually find it in himself to reintroduce Hermione to the life they'd shared for years. "I had you for almost two."

There was a heavy silence between them as he sat on the couch, absentmindedly twirling the ring around his finger, and she drank in the photographs on the shelf, mementos of the time they'd spent together. A random date to Godric's Hollow, a few months after the war ended. A photo of them on the couch, a few weeks after she'd moved in. At Harry's and Ginny's wedding, then at their own. Their second trip to France, at a café on the Champs- Elysées. So many things forgotten.

"Draco…" There was a hesitance to her voice that set Draco immediately on edge. Was she forgetting – remembering – "Is it safe for me to be here?" Ah, practical as always. "I mean…if my memory lapses are as chaotic as you said, then-"

"I'll be here to look after you." His answer was short, sharp, shattering. "I won't have you staying at St. Mungo's again."

"But if I-"

"There's a chance the lapses might become less drastic if you're in a familiar environment." He was speaking mechanically now, in dull tones; there was simply nothing left in him to muster, no matter how happy or agonized he wanted to feel about her being here again. The apartment had felt so empty without her, but it felt emptier still when she was here, surrounded by memories but unable to grasp them. "You'll be going back for checkups every so often, anyway. But if I find I have to, I'll take you back there to stay."

He turned to face her, catching her as she opened her mouth, and for a moment Draco was sure she'd retaliate, talk back. That would have been a resurfacing of the Hermione he had married, the passionate and independent woman who'd fought so hard for this future. Instead, she closed her mouth and nodded, seeming resigned to his decision. This, if nothing else, sparked something in Draco, and he found he was irritated. He _wanted _her to fight back – wanted her to contest his making the decisions for her – wanted her to be anything but listless and acquiescent. He'd wanted her back but he'd wanted _her, _not this shell of his wife. Almost immediately he felt the guilt at being angry with her for something out of her control. It wasn't as if she _wanted _to be forgetting. She was still his Hermione.

Perhaps leaving her there was the better choice, after all.

"I'll… I should go take a shower," she murmured, turning from him, but not before he caught the single tear slipping down her cheek. And Merlin, how it made him want to go to her now, pull her into his arms and simply hold her. Weeks ago he would have given anything to be able to hold her and have her home again. Now he simply nodded and silently guided her upstairs, gesturing to where her clothes were still kept before going back down to cook dinner. The diary was on the kitchen table, untouched by either of them since she'd set it down, a few minutes after their coming back.

Draco busied himself in the kitchen, going through motions almost ritualistic, his only acknowledgment of her presence his cooking enough for two instead of one. The pots clanged and glasses clinked and Draco pretended – just for a few moments – that it was just like before, when he'd be cooking dinner those six nights out of seven, while she was in the shower, having just come home from work. A daydream made all the more convincing when, from behind him, excited, came –

"Chicken parmesan?"

Draco thanked whoever that he'd transferred the pasta into the colander by that time, because the pot it used to be in crashed to the ground, narrowly missing his foot. All the same, the noodles nearly tipped out as he whirled around, a million and then some questions crowding his mouth.

"Sorry!" she exclaimed, jolted by the abruptness of his actions. "I just – I recognized the spell – Mrs. Weasley made it a few times at The Burrow, so-" Her voice cut off, making Draco painfully aware of the disappointment etched on his features. He knew he ought to be immensely grateful that her sanity had remained stable this long, and that she at least remembered being in love with him, but he couldn't help it… For a moment, he'd been so hopeful that she'd remembered something, _anything…_

"Chicken parmesan," he repeated, a weak smile tugging at his lips. "It…" It what? It had been her favorite dish of his, since it was the first thing he'd ever cooked for her? It had made her cry sometimes, remembering Ron and the happy days when a war had not gouged at their souls? "It's one of my better dishes," he finished halfheartedly.

"It smells wonderful," she offered, as she tentatively entered the tiny room. Draco picked up the pot from where it had fallen and replaced it on the stove, cursing himself all the while for having all these expectations.

Dinner was a quiet affair, though Hermione complemented him twice on his cooking. The diary sat awkwardly on the table, neither of them wanting to touch it. Hermione looked a few times as if she might ask something – mention the little book – even just break the silence – but she simply returned to the meal, chewing quietly.

The chime from the living room startled them both.

Momentarily forgetting her presence, Draco dropped his utensils and stood, making to enter the living room so he could tap the figurine and let whoever it was in. The "what-?" from behind him arrested his walk, however, as he turned and remembered just who he'd brought home today. He was still uncertain about telling people he'd had her discharged from St. Mungo's – though they were bound to find out eventually; the wizard world harbored many gossips, and the Ministry would have to be informed – but if it were someone like Harry or Ginny or the twins, it might be worthwhile to invite them in.

"My fireplace," he shrugged. Said piece of furniture chimed again. Turning his back on Hermione, Draco made his way over to find the grim face of Harry staring up at him from the embers.

"Let me in, Draco, there's something you need to know."

"I don't think I should let you in until you know that-"

"Now is not the time to tell me you've been drinking again or something, Malfoy. Let me in."

"I haven't, and quite frankly, I'm insulted you'd think so. But you really need to know that-"

There was a flash of violet and suddenly, Harry was dusting himself off on Draco's living room rug, the owner of which was busy coughing and trying to wave ashes away from his face.

"Bloody hell, Potter, I thought you said you'd never override my protection charms unless it was an absolute dire emergency-"

"And it is. I looked into the hospital we saw, and it turns out-"

"Potter, before you say anything, Hermione's-"

"Yes, it's about her, and-"

"Potter!" Draco's abrupt yell made Harry blanch, but it was that or risk letting her know what they'd been doing – well, he supposed it was behind her back, but it was for her own good. He hadn't gotten around to telling her of their little efforts to try and dig up the cause of her ailment, though for what reasons he still wasn't sure. He'd tell her eventually, probably, but this was not the best way to find out. "She's here."

Draco would have paid good money right then to get a photo of Harry's utterly flabbergasted face. "She – what?"

"Hello, Harry," came Hermione's small voice, drifting in from the kitchen.

And as the cherry on the utterly chaotic and painful cake that made Draco's day, he found himself doing something he had never, in a million lifetimes, thought he'd do: catching a suddenly lightheaded Harry as he almost fainted dead away into Draco's arms.

Now, a photograph of _that _would have been priceless.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

"Sorry again about-"

"Let's just never speak of it again, Potter." Though his words were clipped, Draco found the corners of his mouth twitching. Oh, he'd have paid _good _money to have a wizard's photo of that golden moment. The Boy Who Lived, Head Auror, and Dark Lord Vanquisher extraordinaire, Harry Potter, fainting away into his arms. This would make for a good dig in the ribs in the future.

Harry nodded briefly before glancing up at the door to Draco's bedroom, where Hermione currently lay sleeping. "How long-?"

"Just today." Draco barely concealed his displeasure at the memories. "It took me a day to get them to discharge her; even then, I'll need to bring her in for regular checkups. To see if she's progressing or whatever it is they want me to believe."

"Why did you, er… Why did you bring her home?"

"Because the Healers are idiots."

"Mm," Harry replied, and they lapsed into silence. Draco broke it a few minutes later.

"What was it you wanted to tell me, Potter?"

"Er." Harry glanced up toward the bedroom door again. "I don't know if-"

"She won't hear you." Draco's lips drew a thin line; whatever Harry had to say could not be good. "Out with it."

"I had Fletcher check out the hospital we saw in the memories. When he reported back to me, the information…" Harry ran a hand through his unruly hair and sighed. "Well, I had to check it out myself."

"And?"

"The patient records were still there. Purpose of visit, tests, appointment dates…"

"So what was she there for? Why couldn't she have gone to St. Mungo's or some other wizard hospital?"

"Your guess is as good as mine on this one." Harry's fingers twisted and twined, reminding Draco very uncomfortably of Healer Carnegie, sitting across him, telling him to – no, Draco wouldn't go there. But he had a feeling what Harry was about to tell him would be just as grave. "But…"

"But what, Potter! Spit it out already, you've been beating around the bush for ages!"

"Draco-" and here Harry's green eyes met Draco's dead on, the emotions in them positively overwhelming. "Draco, she was pregnant."

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_A/N You guys got that much right! Haha! I was debating on whether they'd find out through the memories, or Harry would find out first and then Draco through the memories, or… well, let's just say this could have gone off on many tangents, but eventually I settled on this one._

_Did you guys like that I brought her home? And the glimpses of their married life? I was planning to wedge a diary entry in here but I figured I'd wait until the next chapter._

_Here's a little rhyme: read and review, please and thank you!_


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